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THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 


From  the  Library  of 
GERTRUDE  WEIL 

1879-1971 


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GIOVANNI  AND  THE  OTHER 


MRS.  BURNETT'S  FAMOUS  JUVENILES. 


G 


IOVANNI  AND  THE  OTHER.     Children  Who  Have  Made  Stories. 


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In  this  new  volume  of  stories  for  young  readers,  by  the  author  of  "Little  Lord  Fauntleroy ,"  there  is 
a  certain  unity  growing  out  of  the  fact  that  with  one  or  two  exceptions  the  tales  are  about  little  people 
whom  Mrs.  Burnett  has  known,  an  autobiographic  interest  thereby  attaching  to  these  charming  portraits 
of  child  life.  Four  of  the  stories,  sad,  sweet  and  touched  "with  delicate  humor,  are  about  little  Italian 
waifs  who  crept  into  the  author's  heart.  Two  of  the  stories  are  of  incidents  in  the  lives  of  Mrs.  Burnetfs 
own  boys  ;  and  the  others,  "while  varied  in  subject ,  have  the  same  magic  charm  of  disclosing  the  beauty  of 
child-life  with  a  sympathy  and  warmth  of  feeling  the  secret  of  which  Mrs.  Burnett  alone  seems  to  possess. 
Mr.  Birch' s  illustrations  portray  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  Mrs.  Burnett's  stories  with  a  clear  insight 
into  the  beauty  of  character,  as  well  as  grace  of  person,  which  they  typify . 


Lr 


ITTLE  LORD    FAUNTLEROY. 


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"  In  ''Little  Lord  Fauntleroy  '  we  gain  another 
charming  child  to  add  to  our  gallery  of  juvenile 
heroes  and  heroines ;  one  who  teaches  a  great 
lesson  "with  such  truth  and  sweetness  that  we 
part  with  him  with  real  regret  when  the  episode 
is  over." — Louisa  M.  Alcott. 


ARA  CREWE. 


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' '  Everybody  "was  in  love  with  '  Little  Lord 
Fauntleroy,'  and  I  think  all  the  world  and  the 
rest  of  mankind  'will  be  in  love  with  '  Sara  Crewe. ' 
The  tale  is  so  tender,  so  wise,  so  human,  that  I 
•wish  every  girl  in  America  could  read  it,  for  I 
think  ez'ery.one  -would  be  made  better  by  it." — 
Louise  Chandler  Moulton. 


Li 


ITTLE  SAINT  ELIZABETH,   And  Other  Stories. 


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"  The  pretty  tale  has  for  its  heroine  a  little  French  girl  brought  up  in  an  old  chateau  in  Normandy 
by  an  aunt  who  is  a  recluse  and  a  devote.  A  child  of  this  type  transplanted  suddenly  to  the  realistic 
atmosphere  of  New  York  must  inez'itably  have  much  to  stiff er.  The  quaint  little  figure  blindly  trying 
to  guess  the  riddle  of  ditty  under  these  unfamiliar  conditions  is  pathetic,  and  Mrs.  Burnett  touches  it  in 
with  delicate  strokes." — Susan  Coolidge. 


Illustrated  by  REGINALD  <B.  "BIRCH. 


GIOVANNI    TOOK    HIS    USUAL    BOYISH    POSE   WITH    HIS    HANDS    ON    HIS    HIPS. 


QlOVANNI  AND  THE  QTHER 


CHILDREN  WHO   HAVE  MADE  STORIES 


BY 


FRANCES   HODGSON    BURNETT 


NEW   YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1892 


Copyright,  1892,  by 
Charles  Scribnkr's  Sons 


Press  of  J.  J.  Little  &  Co. 
Astor  Place,  New  York 


PREFACE 


All  my  life  I  have  made  stories,  and  since  I  was  seven  years 
old  I  have  written  them.  This  has  been  my  way  of  looking 
at  life  as  it  went  by  me.  Every  one  has  his  own  way  of 
looking  at  things.  A  man  or  woman  who  is  an  artist  probably 
sees  everything  as  a  picture.  Sunset  and  sunrise,  country  and 
town  groups,  children  playing,  older  people  at  work,  perhaps  all 
form  themselves   into  pictures  when  an  artist  looks  at  them. 

In  the  same  way  it  happens  that  scenes,  incidents,  and  persons 
quite  naturally  suggest  to  me  the  story  which  may  belong  to  them. 
I  do  not  know  how  many  such  stories  pass  through  my  mind  in  a 
day.  Some  of  them  merely  flit  through  like  birds  across  the  sky, 
and  are  forgotten,  but  there  are  some  that  stay,  or  at  least  leave 
traces.  And  in  thinking  of  this  once,  I  found  I  could  call  out  of 
the  shadows  a  number  of  children,  some  of  whom,  though  only 
seen  for  a  few  moments,  have  remained  quite  distinct  memories  to 
me,  and  seem  like  little  friends  I  like  to  think  about.  There  are  so 
many  of  them,  of  so  many  countries,  speaking  such  different  lan- 
guages, wearing  such  different  costumes,  and  each  one  of  them 
seeming  to  suggest  a  story  of  his  own.  Sometimes  it  may  be  the 
story  of  a  tiny  news-boy  in  New  York  ;  a  little  fellow  with  sun- 
bleached  hair  whom  I  find  in  the  mountains  of  North  Carolina;  a 
poor  little  man  waiting  in  the  mud  and  drizzling  rain  in  a  crowded 


viii  PREFACE 

London  street,  and  rushing  to  open  my  carriage  door  in  the  hope 
of  being  given  a  few  coppers ;  a  beautiful  little  soft-eyed,  curly- 
haired  beggar  in  Rome,  lingering  in  the  sun  until  I  drive  out  of  the 
court-yard  of  my  hotel,  that  he  may  run  after  me,  laughing,  as  he 
cries  out,  "Soldi,  Signora  !  " — quite  sure  that  he  is  so  pretty  and 
coaxing  that  he  need  not  pretend  to  be  miserable  (which  he  is  not 
at  all),  and  that  the  soldi  will  be  thrown  tinkling  onto  the  pavement. 
It  may  be  the  story  of  any  of  these  or  of  many  others,  but  each  one 
is  part  of  some  story,  and  there  seems  to  be  a  little  sketch  of  each 
hung  in  a  certain  gallery  in  my  mind. 

Remembering  that  to  my  own  childhood  the  story  of  a  child  who 
was  a  real,  living  creature  had  a  special  fascination,  I  have  put  some 
of  these  sketches  into  words,  trying  to  give  them  the  color  which 
surrounded  them  and  made  them  stories  and  pictures  to  me,  think- 
ing that  perhaps  other  children  may  like  to  read  of  small  creatures 
who  were  as  real  as  themselves,  and  not  only  beings  of  the  imagi- 
nation. 

Frances  Hodgson  Burnett. 


CONTENTS 

Giovanni  and  the  Other Page     i 

"  IUustrissimo  Signor  Bebe"  ..........  55 

The  Daughter  of  the  Custodian "      69 

A  Pretty  Roman  Beggar    ...........  80 

Eight  Little  Princes    .............  "      91 

One  who  lived  long,  long  ago     .........  "102 

The  Little  Faun .........  "118 

"  What  Use  is  a  Poet  ?" .    ..........  "    131 

The  Boy  who  became  a  Socialist    ........  "     140 


CONTENTS 


Birdie Page  14J 

The  Tinker 's  Tom "    159 

The  Quite  True  Story  of  an  Old  Hawthorn  Tree  .    .       "    176 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

Giovanni  took  his  usual  boyish  pose  with  his  hands  on  his  hips  .      Frontispiece 

She  put  out  her  hand  and  laid  it  on  the  peasant' s  arm      ....  Page  37 

/;/  one  of  the  boxes "  5/ 

The  little  figure  drew  up  before  him  ............  "  6s 

"Bella  signora,  uno  soldino ! "    .....         . "  85 

"I  smoothed  its  feathers  softly"      ............  "  /03 

A  little  faun "  121 

"What  are  you  doing  that  for?"  I  asked "  75/ 

He  pulled  out  and  exhibited  quite  proudly  a  pretty  little  fox  terrier 

puppy  .........         . ,    .  "  i6j 


GIOVANNI    AND    THE    OTHER 


I. 

Giovanni  walked  up  the  enclosed  road  leading  to  the  great 
white  hotel  with  the  many  marble  balconies.  It  was  quite 
a  grand  hotel  and  stood  in  a  garden  where  palm-trees  and 
orange-trees  and  flowers  grew.  A  white  balustraded  terrace  sepa- 
rated the  garden  from  the  carriage  drive  by  the  grey-green  olives, 
and  roses  and  heliotropes  grew  in  tumbling  masses  over  the  stone. 
It  was  on  an  elevation,  and  below  it  one  could  see  the  promenade 
by  the  sea  and  the  great  lake-like  sapphire  blue  expanse  of  the 
Mediterranean. 

There  were  palm-trees  and  flowers  bordering  the  promenade, 
and  even  in  the  winter  there  were  numbers  of  children  walking 
about  with  baskets  full  of  violets  and  narcissus  and  anemones,  which 
they  ran  after  the  pedestrians  with,  in  the  hope  of  selling. 

The  sun  seemed  always  shining  and  the  air  soft  there,  and  there 
were  always  flowers,  for  the  little  town  was  a  pretty  quaint  one  on 
the  Riviera.  It  was  called  San  Remo,  and  in  the  winter  was  always 
full  of  foreigners  who  came  to  see  the  sun  when  it  seemed  finally  to 
have  left  England,  or  to  escape  from  wind  and  cold  when  they  were 
delicate. 


GIOVANNI  AND    THE  OTHER 


Most  of  them — the  fores tier i — were  more  or  less  delicate.  Some 
of  them  had  thin,  pale  faces,  and  coughed  and  walked  slowly,  some 
of  them  were  pulled  about  in  invalid  rolling  chairs,  and  often  one 
saw  one  in  deep  mourning,  and  might  guess  either  that  some  one 
belonging  to  them  had  come  to  the  south  to  get  well  and  had  died 
in  the  midst  of  the  flowers  and  palms  and  orange-trees,  or  that  hav- 
ing lost  some  one  they  loved  in  some  other  place,  had  come  to  try 
to  bear  the  shock  of  their  grief  in  the  land  where  the  sunshine 
might  help  them  a  little. 

But  whatever  had  happened  to  bring  them,  whether  they  were 
well  or  ill,  or  burdened  with  sorrow,  they  always  were  pleased  with 
two  things.  They  always  were  pleased  with  the  flowers  and  carried 
them  about  in  bunches,  and  if  any  one  played  the  guitar  and  man- 
dolin and  sang  well  they  were  pleased,  and  gave  money  to  the 
players  and  singers. 

So  there  were  many  flower  sellers  in  the  streets  and  many  flower 
shops  in  the  town,  and  there  were  many  people  who  wandered 
about  with  mandolins  and  guitars,  playing  before  the  hotels,  and 
generally  having  with  them  some  one  who  either  could  sing  sweetly 
or  who  tried  to.  In  the  latter  case  sometimes  they  got  money  to 
induce  them  to  go  away — to  the  next  hotel,  at  least. 

Giovanni  was  one  of  those  who  fortunately  could  sing,  and  a 
man  went  with  him  who  played  the  harp. 

He  was  a  handsome  Italian  boy  about  fourteen  years  old.  He 
was  strong  and  plump  and  well-built,  and  had  a  dark-eyed,  merry, 
pretty  face,  and  a  gay,  bright  smile.  It  was  rather  a  lovable  face, 
and  when  money  was  thrown  to  him  from  the  balconies,  and  he  ran 
and  picked  it  up,  pulling  off  his  cap  and  saying,  "  Grazie,  Signora," 
or  "Signorina,"  or  "  Signore,"  as  the  case  might  be,  his  quick  little 
bow  was  often  returned  by  a  nod. 

They  had  so  much  money,   these  forestieri,   Giovanni  thought 


GIOVANNI  AND    THE   OTHER 


they  might  well  be  good-natured.  Think  what  lives  they  must  have, 
these  people  who  were  rich  enough  to  travel  away  from  unpleasant 
weather,  and  who  lived  in  the  great  gay  hotels,  eating  wonderful 
things  three  times  a  day,  waited  upon  by  dozens  of  servants,  and 
with  an  imposing  concierge  in  uniform  and  gold  buttons,  who  ap- 
peared on  the  broad,  white  marble,  flower-bordered  entrance  steps, 
and,  calling  up  a  waiting  carriage  with  a  majestic  wave  of  the  hand 
and  a  loud  "  Avante,"  carried  out  to  it  wraps  and  cushions,  and  held 
the  door  open  while  the  signoras  entered,  touching  his  gold-banded 
cap  gracefully  as  they  drove  away.  Ah  !  what  a  life  it  must  be,  to 
be  sure. 

But  though  he  was  only  a  little  peasant,  Giovanni  knew  that 
fortune  had  not  been  so  unkind  to  him  after  all.  He  had  his  voice, 
and  had  had  luck  with  it  ever  since  the  man  with  the  harp  had  pro- 
posed that  he  should  go  and  sing  with  him  before  the  hotels  and 
villas.  Giovanni  had  a  share  of  the  money,  and  he  was  comfortably 
fed  and  given  warm  clothes,  even  to  the  extent  of  having  a  scarf  to 
wrap  round  his  throat  on  chilly  nights,  for  fear  he  should  catch  cold 
and  become  hoarse.  The  man  with  the  harp  knew  he  was  worth 
somethings 

He  had  a  full,  sweet,  strong  voice,  and  he  sang  his  songs  of  the 
people  with  a  melodious  freshness.  He  had  a  little  repertoire  of  his 
own,  and  was  not  reduced  to  singing  "Santa  Lucia"  as  often  as 
many  of  the  street  troubadours.  There  was  a  little  song  of  a 
reproachful  lover  who  rather  embarrassingly  recalls  the  past  to 
his  unkind  fair  one.  "When  I  am  far  away,"  he  says,  ''you  will 
remember  the  kisses  you  have  given  me.  Yes,  you  will  remember 
then,"  etc. 

And  Giovanni  used  to  stand  with  his  hands  on  his  hips  and  pour 
forth  these  reproaches  in  his  clear,  full,  boyish  voice,  looking  so 
happy  and    young  and  content  that   it  was  very  charming.      And 


GIOVANNI  AND   THE  OTHER 


then  there  was  "  O  je  Carolie,"  and  the  Ritirata,  and  the  gayest  one 
of  all — a  rattling  little  one — about  the  Bersaglieri — the  dashing 
sharpshooters  who  went  "double  quick"  through  life  in  their  pic- 
turesque cloaks  and  broad-brimmed  hats  on  one  side,  with  the  great 
plumes  of  cock's  feathers  sweeping  their  shoulders. 

"The  Bersaoflieri  have  feathers  on  their  hats,"  he  sans-  in  Nea- 
politan  dialect.  "  How  many  little  capons  and  hens  have  to  be  de- 
stroyed to  provide  all  this  beauty.  Love  the  Bersaglieri — love  them 
— they  are  the  saviours  of  your  country."  And  all  so  gaily  and  with 
such  a  swing-  to  the  air  that  one  could  imagine  a  Bersao-liere  hear- 
ing  him  would  rush  forward  and  shower  upon  him  unlimited  soldi. 

The  morning  my  story  begins  with  was  a  perfect  one.  It  was 
in  January,  but  San  Remo  was  flooded  with  brilliant  sunshine,  the 
Mediterranean  was  like  a  great  sapphire,  the  air  was  as  soft  as  if  it 
had  been  May.  Giovanni  was  in  a  joyous  humor — but  then  he 
usually  was — as  he  and  the  man  with  the  harp  mounted  the  long 
flight  of  stone  steps  which  led  into  the  hotel  garden. 

"  I  wonder  how  much  we  shall  get,"  he  said  to  his  companion. 
"The  Grand  Hotel  des  Anglais  has  not  been  so  full  this  month." 
That  was  the  name  of  the  hotel  they  were  going  to  sing  and  play 
before. 

The  man  with  the  harp  planted  it  in  a  good  position  before  the 
long  flight  of  broad  white  marble  entrance  steps.  There  were  big 
pots  of  palms  and  azaleas  and  flowering  plants  of  various  sorts  on 
each  side  of  the  steps  all  the  way  up  to  the  glass  door  which  one  of 
the  servants  always  stood  behind,  ready  to  open. 

Giovanni  took  his  usual  boyish  pose  with  his  hands  on  his  hips 
and  began  to  sing.  He  sang  the  song  of  the  reproachful  lover  and 
the  Bella  Sorrentina,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  last  he  heard  a  win- 
dow open.  This  was  a  sound  always  to  be  noted,  because  it  meant 
that  someone  was  coming  out  on  to  the  balcony  to  listen  and  would 


GIOVANNI  AND    'J 'HE   OTHER 


probably  throw  him  some  money.  But  he  was  artist  enough  not  to 
look  up  until  his  song  was  finished.  Even  if  money  was  thrown  he 
did  not  move  until  his  song-  was  over.  Then  he  used  to  run  and 
pick  it  up,  lifting  his  cap  in  recognition. 

When  he  had  finished  La  bella  Sorrentina  he  glanced  over  the 
front  of  the  hotel.  There  were  several  balconies  which  belonged  to 
the  larger  apartments,  to  the  people  who  had  suites  of  two  or  three 
rooms  and  private  salons.  At  the  end  of  one  of  these  a  lady  was 
standing  leaning  against  the  marble  balustrade  and  resting  her  fore- 
head on  her  hand  as  she  looked  down  at  him. 

Giovanni  saw  that  she  was  one  of  the  forestieri  who  were  in 
deep  mourning.  She  was  all  black  but  that  she  had  blonde  hair 
which  the  morning  sun  was  shining1  on.  There  was  something  sad 
and  fatigued  about  her  attitude,  and  as  he  looked  up  she  touched 
her  eyes  lightly  with  the  finger  of  the  hand  that  shaded  them  ;  with 
the  other  hand  she  made  a  motion  to  Giovanni.  She  held  a  tiny 
white  package  in  it.  It  was  some  money  folded  in  a  piece  of  paper 
so  that  it  could  be  easily  seen  and  found  where  she  threw  it. 

Giovanni  went  and  stood  under  her  balcony.  She  smiled  down 
at  him  and  threw  the  bit  of  paper  with  a  sort  of  friendly,  almost 
caressing,  gesture  which  made  him  feel  that  she  had  liked  his  voice 
very  much,  and  which  caused  him  to  lilt  his  cap  with  spirit  and  call 
out  with  more  than  usual  feeling  his  "  Grazie,  Signora." 

Then  he  ran  back  to  the  harp — put  the  white  paper  into  the  harp- 
ist's pocket,  without  looking  at  it  or  opening  it  at  all — which  was 
really  quite  dignified  artistic  taste  for  a  boy  street  singer — and  he  be- 
gan the  song  about  the  Bersaglieri.  The  lady  in  black  rested  against 
the  marble  balustrade  again  and  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand. 

As  she  did  so  a  tall  girl  came  out  upon  the  balcony  and  stood 
close  to  her.  She  was  a  girl  with  a  lovely  rounded  face  and  black- 
lashed  grey  eyes. 


GIOVANNI  AND    THE   OTHER 


"What  a  beautiful  voice!"  she  exclaimed  enthusiastically. 
"What  a  darling,  full,  sweet  boy  voice  !  What  a  good  voice!  And 
how  well  he  sin^s." 

"He  has  a  dear  boy  face,  too,"  said  the  other.  "He  looks  so 
bright  and  happy.  He  looks  about  as  old  as  Geof,  I  think.  He  has 
just  sung  one  of  Geofs  songs,  '  La  bella  Sorrentina  ; '  you  know  he 
sings  that." 

The  girl  gave  her  a  soft,  quick,  side  glance,  and  drew  closer  to 
her,  touching  her  caressingly. 

"  Don't,  dear,"  she  said  ;  "you  must  not  have  tears  in  your  eyes." 

"Well,"  answered  the  lady  in  black,  quietly,  and  looking  over 
the  olives  at  the  sea,  "  it  is  so  strange  how  every  moment  some- 
thing reminds  me.  Everything  makes  me  remember  something — 
the  palm  trees  and  oranges  and  flowers  that  we  hoped  he  would 
be  strong  enough  to  be  brought  to  see — the  Mediterranean  that  he 
used  to  plan  to  use  his  launch  on — ah!  everything  has  some  connec- 
tion of  thought  with  him — and  when  that  boy  began,  it  brought  back 
the  days  when  Geof  used  to  stand  singing  with  his  hands  on  his 
hips — and  how  he  used  to  sit  near  and  listen  and  think  it  was  so 
clever.  He  used  to  say,  '  Oh,  Geof  can  sing.  He's  got  a  voice — 
but  I  couldn't  do  it.  I  never  saw  such  a  fellow  as  Geof;  he  can  do 
anything.'  You  know  he  always  admired  Geofs  gifts,  in  a  boyish 
way.  And  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  if — if  all  the  stories  are 
quite  true,  the  stories  of  the  Far  Country  where  he  has  gone — per- 
haps now  he  sings,  too." 

She  drew  her  palm  softly  and  quickly  across  her  cheek. 

"It  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  loved  that  little  fellow  down  there," 
she  said.  "  Boys  always  seem  near  to  me,  you  know.  There,  he 
has  finished  singing  and  they  are  going." 

That  was  the  beginning  of  Giovanni's  acquaintance  with  the 
lady  in  black. 


II. 

He  used  to  come  back  to  sing  before  the  hotel  twice  a  week, 
and  always  after  the  first  few  bars  of  his  song  she  used  to 
appear  on  the  balcony  and  lean  on  the  marble  and  listen, 
and  watch  him.  He  was  always  sure  of  having  his  silver  franc 
thrown  down,  folded  in  paper.  On  the  morning  of  the  Flower 
Corso,  at  the  end  of  the  Carnival,  she  threw  him  two,  and  often  the 
girl  with  the  grey  eyes  threw  him  one  also.  They  never  threw  him 
coppers,  and  they  generally  waved  their  hands  to  him  and  said, 
"Buon  giorno,"  as  he  picked  up  his  money. 

Whether  money  was  thrown  from  other  balconies  or  not  he  was 
always  sure  of  his  little  revenue  from  the  one  where  the  black 
figure  stood  listening-. 

Being  a  bright,  spirited  boy  who  liked  to  be  appreciated,  he 
began  to  rather  look  forward  to  his  mornings  before  the  hotel.  He 
felt  somehow  as  if  these  ladies  liked  him  and  were  his  friends.  He 
began  even  to  feel  that  he  had  a  sort  of  claim  upon  them,  and  he 
always  sang  his  best  under  their  balcony  and  made  his  most  grace- 
ful bow. 

One  day  they  were  walking  through  the  town  and  a  boy  passing 
them  stepped  aside  from  the  narrow  pavement,  and  pulling  off  his 
cap  said  brightly, — 

"  Buon  giorno,  Signore." 

The  tall  girl  turned  to  look  at  him. 


GIOVANNI  AND   THE   OTHER 


"Ah,"  she  said,  "that  is  our  boy  who  sings.  He  is  alone  and 
he  knew  us  and  said  '  Buon  giorno.'  " 

The  lady  in  black  turned  also.  "  Yes,  it  is  our  boy,"  she  said. 
"Ah,  let  us  qto  back  and  talk  to  him  a  little.  I  want  to  see  him 
closer." 

To  Giovanni's  surprise  they  turned  back  and  came  towards  him. 
He  stopped  and  pulled  off  his  cap  again.  He  had  a  smooth,  pretty 
dark-haired  head,  and  seen  close  to  he  was  a  handsome  boy  with  a 
merry  smiling  face. 

"You  sing  for  us  before  our  hotel,  don't  you  ?  "  said  the  grey- 
eyed  girl,  speaking  Italian. 

"  Si,  Signorina,"  he  answered,  feeling  pleased  at  her  gentle, 
friendly  manner. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Giovanni  Calcagni." 

"  And  you  are  fond  of  music  ?  " 

"  Si,  si,  Signorina,"  smiling. 

Then  they  asked  him  how  old  he  was  and  where  he  had  learned 
to  sing,  and  he  told  them  he  was  fourteen  and  had  always  sung 
little  songs  ;  but  about  three  years  ago  a  one-eyed  man  had  taken 
him  about  with  him  to  sing-  before  the  villas  and  hotels,  and  so  he 
had  learned  to  sing  better. 

"  The  Signora  here,"  said  the  tall  girl,  "has  a  boy  who  is  four- 
teen years  old,  like  you,  and  he  has  a  beautiful  voice  and  sings 
some  of  our  Italian  songs,  so  the  Signora  likes  to  hear  you  sing, 
very  much." 

"Is  the  Sienorino  in  San  Remo  ?  "  Giovanni  asked. 

"  No,  he  is  not  in  San  Remo.      He  is  in  America." 

Giovanni  had  heard  of  America.  It  was  far  away.  A  long 
voyage  across  the  sea.  People  went  there  and  became  rich.  There 
had  been  a  San  Remese  sailor,  quite  a  common  man,  who  had  gone 


GIOVANNI  AND    THE   OTHER 


there,  and  after  two  years  had  come  hack  and  built  a  wonderful 
villa  by  the  sea.  It  was  a  marvellously  ornamented  villa,  fantasti- 
cally decorated.  Giovanni  had  once  heard  that  there  were  forestieri 
who  smiled  at  it  and  said  it  was  decorated  like  a  wedding  cake. 
But  it  was  known  to  have  cost  a  great  deal  of  money,  and  the  owner 
had  made  all  this  money  in  America,  though  no  one  knew  how. 
Probably  he  had  picked  it  up  in  the  streets. 

This  made  the  lady  in  black  and  her  friend  additionally  inter- 
esting. They  were  of  course  rich,  as  they  lived  at  the  Grand  Hotel 
des  Anglais  and  threw  out  silver  to  singers.  But  it  was  more  than 
interesting  to  hear  of  a  boy  of  his  own  age  who  lived  in  America 
and  also  sang  "La  bella  Sorrentina,"  and  the  rest,  in  Italian.  It 
seemed  enviable. 

The  lady  in  black  looked  at  him  with  longing  in  her  eyes,  and 
she  gave  him  a  franc  for  himself  on  the  spot,  and  then  the  two 
smiled  and  left  him. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  the  lady  in  black,  as  they  walked  along  the 
promenade  under  the  palm  trees,  "  I  wonder  if  he  will  have  a  fine 
voice  when  he  is  a  man.  It  is  difficult  to  tell,  I  suppose  ;  I  have 
always  heard  so.  Musicians  always  advise  me  not  to  let  Geof  use 
his  voice  too  much  now  he  is  crowing"  older." 

"  That  is  the  great  point,  I  believe,"  said  her  companion.  "  Gio- 
vanni's voice  is  a  beautiful  one,  but  it  may  not  be  so  fine  when  it 
changes  into  a  man's  voice — certainly  it  won't  if  he  strains  it  by 
singing  too  much  now  and  by  forcing  his  notes." 

"  It  would  be  a  cruel  thing  for  it  to  be  spoiled,"  returned  the 
lady  in  black,  reflectively.  "  Think  what  a  future  it  might  make 
for  him  if,  when  he  is  a  young  man,  he  had  that  splendid  gift." 

"  Now  you  are  making  a  story  out  of  him,"  said  the  girl,  with  a 
caressing  little  laugh.  "  You  are  imagining  he  may  have  a  career  be- 
fore him  and  be  a  world-renowned  tenor.      I  know  your  little  ways." 


io  GIOVANNI  AND   THE  OTHER 

The  lady  in  black  smiled. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "of  course.  I  am  a  romantic  person,  and 
I  will  have  my  story  whenever  there  is  a  shadow  of  a  chance.  See 
what  a  story  it  would  be,  Gertrude.  Here  he  is — Giovanni,  a  per- 
fectly simple,  ordinary  little  peasant  boy,  singing  about  the  streets 
with  a  one-eyed  man  and  a  harpist,  and  feeling  quite  rich  when  one 
throws  him  a  franc.  I  have  no  doubt  he  thinks  it  is  quite  splendid 
to  be  one  of  the  forestieri  and  live  in  a  hotel.  He  probably  lives 
in  one  of  the  queer  old,  old  tumbling-down  houses  in  the  '  Citta 
Vecchia' — one  of  those  in  the  climbing  streets  which  are  like  corri- 
dors,  and  have  little  archways  thrown  from  house  to  house,  and  appar- 
ently no  windows,  only  tiny  square  holes,  with  rusty  bars  across.  You 
remember  how  dark  they  are,  and  how  green  things  grow  out  of 
the  stones,  and  how  sometimes  there  are  sheep  or  cows  in  the  room 
on  the  first  floor. 

"We  will  suppose  he  lives  there,  and  sits  with  the  sheep  when 
it  is  cold.  He  eats  polenta  and  farinata  and  castagnone — those 
brownish  and  yellowish  slabs  which  look  like  uninviting  pudding 
when  one  sees  them  being  cooked  over  the  charcoal  fires  in  the  nar- 
row streets.  They  are  made  of  maize  or  chestnut  flour,  and  it  does 
not  give  one  an  appetite  to  look  at  them.  Sometimes  he  has  mac- 
caroni  and  goat  cheese,  and  in  the  summer  he  eats  ripe  figs  and 
grapes  and  black  bread.  Perhaps  he  never  had  a  franc  all  to  him- 
self until  I  gave  him  that  one  to-day.  I  wonder  what  he  will  do 
with  it  ?  Perhaps  he  will  buy  that  hard,  sticky  cake  made  of 
nuts.  He  looks  like  a  dear  boy,  but  I  don't  think  he  looks  imag- 
inative or  ambitious.  I  don't  imagine  he  dreams  about  a  career. 
Now,  imagine  that  this  beautiful  boy's  voice  changes  into  a  won- 
derful tenor.  Imagine  that  someone  helps  him  to  cultivate  it,  and 
brings  him  before  the  world,  and  it  begins  to  applaud  and  adore 
him." 


GIOVANNI  AND    THE  OTHER  u 


"  It  would  be  like  a  fairy  story,"  said  Gertrude  ;  "  he  would  think 
he  was  living  in  a  dream.'' 

"  He  would  be  rich,''  said  the  lady  in  black.  "  He  would  travel 
from  country  to  country,  and  everywhere  he  would  be  feted  and 
caressed.  Of  course  we  are  imagining  him  to  be  a  sort  of  king  of 
tenors,  and  not  one  with  an  ordinarily  good  voice.  Kings  and 
queens  would  hear  him  and  praise  him,  and  if  he  were  a  charming 
fellow  would  make  a  sort  of  favorite  of  him.  I  think  he  would  be  a 
charming  fellow,  don't  you?      He  has  a  bright,  handsome  face." 

The  girl  with  the  grey  eyes  turned  to  look  down  at  her  friend — 
(she  was  the  taller  of  the  two) — -with  her  soft,  caressing,  little 
laucrh. 

"I  think  he  would,"  she  said;  "we  will  imagine  he  would  be 
perfectly  beautiful  and  perfectly  delightful  as  we  are  imagining 
things.      It  makes  the  story  prettier." 

"That  is  the  advantage  of  imagining:"  said  her  friend.  "  One 
can  make  the  story  as  pretty  as  one  likes.  I  wonder  if  he  has  a 
mother  in  the  Citta  Vecchia,  and  if  he  would  remember  her  and  her 
love  when  he  was  a  Qreat  tenor?  Let  us  imagine  that  he  would — 
and  imagine  how  proud  and  radiantly  happy  she  would  be.  Poor 
little  peasant  woman,  I  hope  the  grandeur  and  the  kings  and  queens 
would  not  frighten  her." 

"  Think  how  she  would  feel  sitting  in  a  box  at  the  opera — at  La 
Scala,  for  instance,"  said  the  girl.  "  She  would  have  had  to  lay  aside 
her  short  petticoats  and  her  peasant  bodice,  and  have  learned  to 
wear  a  bonnet  instead  of  a  red  and  yellow  and  green  handkerchief 
tied  over  her  head." 

"And  she  would  have  very  large  grand  ear-rings,  I  am  sure," 
went  on  the  lady  in  black,  with  a  little  softly-smiling  reflective  air. 
"  Giovanni  would  have  given  them  to  her  for  a  present.  Don't  you 
think  she  would  choose  some  of  those   big"  ancient  ones  we  see   in 


12  GIOVANNI  AND    THE  OTHER 


the  curiosity  shops,  with  queer  stones  in  them  and  a  great  deal  of 
turquoise  ?  They  say  those  have  all  been  bought  from  peasants. 
I  think  she  would  be  sure  to  want  a  pair.  Diamonds  would  seem 
quite  cold  and  plain  to  her,  dear  simple  old  thing.  She  would  want 
turquoise  and  garnets  and  amethysts  and  yellow  old  pearls  set 
elaborately  in  silver  gilt." 

"  How  real  she  seems,"  smiled  the  girl  with  the  grey  eyes;  and 
then  they  looked  at  each  other,  and  her  friend  smiled  also. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "he  has  a  voice — and  he  might  have  a  career 
— and  it  is  more  than  probable  that  he  has  a  mother — so  it  is  easy 
to  imagine  a  story  for  him.  I  wish  we  could  do  something-  to  help 
to  make  it  real.  Why  should  he  eat  polenta  and  live  like  a  peasant 
always  if  he  has  a  gift  ?  I  am  going  to  think  about  him,  and  see  if 
— well,  if  there  is  anything  to  be  done." 

"You  always  want  to  make  your  stories  come  true,  don't  you?" 
said  her  companion. 

The  lady  in  black  looked  out  far  over  the  sunlight  sapphire  sea. 
She  seemed  to  be  thinking-  of  something  that  stirred  in  her  a  sad 
tenderness. 

"  I  might  make  him  one  of  Leo's  friends,"  she  said,  "  one  of 
those  boys  he  helps." 

"You  are  always  thinking  of  Leo,  I  think,"  the  girl  said  very 
gently.      "  He  seems  very  near  to  you,  dear." 

"  Very  near,"  was  the  answer.  "I  could  not  let  him  seem  far 
away.  He  is  more  real  than  anything  else.  Sometimes  I  think  he 
seems  even  more  real  than  Geof,  who  is  alive  and  strong  and  happy, 
and  always  busy.  A  year  ago  Leo  was  alive  and  like  him.  He 
was  so  strong  and  bright,  and  so  full  of  the  things  he  was  interested 
in.  I  can't  let  him  go  just  because  of  that  morning  when  his  brown 
eyes  closed  so  softly  and  his  arms  unclasped  themselves  and  slipped 
slowly  away  from  my  neck.      I  must  comfort  myself  in   some  way — 


GIOVANNI  AND   THE  OTHER  13 


so  I  try  to  imagine  things  about  him  too — and  I  try  to  make  them 
seem  quite  real." 

The  girl  with  the  grey  eyes  put  her  hand  through  her  arm  and 
drew  it  to  her  side  with  a  tender  pressure. 

"  Dear !  "  she  said. 

Two  large  quiet  drops  slipped  down  her  friend's  cheeks,  but  no 
others  followed  them,  and  she  went  on  speaking,  with  even  a  little 
smile  on  her  lips. 

"  I  say  to  myself  that  he  has  gone  to  a  Fair  Far  Country,"  she 
said.  "  Perhaps  it  is  because  I  am  a  very  earthly  person  that  I 
have  to  make  it  so  real  to  myself.  I  tell  myself  that  other  mothers' 
sons  go  away  to  far  countries  to  live.  You  know  there  are  so  many 
who  oro  to  foreign  lands  to  make  their  fortunes.  But  their  mothers 
do  not  feel  as  if  they  had  lost  them.  And  I  know  they  must  com- 
fort themselves  by  doing  things  for  them  and  reading  books  about 
the  countries  they  have  gone  to.  If  Leo  had  gone  to  Africa,  think 
how  I  should  have  read  about  Africa.  As  it  is,  I  read  over  and  over 
the  parts  of  those  last  chapters  which  tell  about  the  City,  the  City 
that  has  streets  ot  pure  gold,  like  unto  clear  glass.  It  always 
seemed  like  a  beautiful  fairy  story,  until  Leo  went  away.  And  then 
I  was  so  hungry  for  him — it  seemed  as  if  I  must  have  something 
real  to  think  of,  so  I  began  to  read,  and  imagine.  I  wish  there  was 
more  to  read.  I  like  to  remember  that  '  the  gates  of  it  shall  not  be 
shut  at  all  by  day — and  there  is  no  night  there.'  He  was  so 
happy  when  he  was  on  earth,  I  can't  help  trying  to  make  it  a 
place  that  would  not  seem  too  dazzling  and  strange  and  solemn 
for  a  boy  to  like.  He  was  only  such  a  boy,  you  know,  and  at 
first  I  could  not  help  feeling  timid  and  hoping  that  it  would  not 
overwhelm  and  bewilder  him.  I  try  to  remember  more  about 
the  green  pastures  and  the  river  of  crystal  than  about  the  walls 
of  jasper  and  sapphire,  and   emerald,  and  the  streets   of  gold.      But 


14  GIOVANNI  AND   THE  OTHER 

somehow  I  love  the  gates  made  of  great  pearls,  and  always  standing 
open." 

"  You  do  make  it  real,  don't  you,  dear?"  said  the  girl. 

"  I  must  make  it  real,  I  must  do  things  to  comfort  myself  and 
make  me  feel  that  I  am  not  letting  him  go.  That  is  why  I  have 
my  fancy  about  helping  those  other  boys  whom  I  call  his  friends.  If 
he  had  lived  to  be  a  man  he  might  have  had  sorrow  and  pain  and  dis- 
appointment— he  might  have  known  temptation  and  have  fallen  into 
human  fault.  That  is  all  over  for  him — he  can  never  be  touched 
now.  Why  should  not  I  go  on  with  the  sweet  kind  things  he  might 
have  done?  You  know  there  would  have  been  many  of  them.  He 
had  a  tender,  generous  heart — and  in  the  life  of  a  man  with  a  heart 
like  that  there  must  be  many  good  things  done  for  others,  even  if 
there  should  be  human  weakness  and  sorrow  too.  I  don't  want  the 
sweet  things  to  go  undone  just  because  he  has  died.  That  would 
be  as  if  those  he  might  have  helped  had  been  robbed  of  a  friend. 
When  he  was  a  baby  I  used  to  say,  '  I  want  the  big  world  to  be  bet- 
ter just  because  he  lives.'  Now  I  say,  '  I  want  it  to  be  better  even 
that  he  has  lived — and  died.'  " 

"And  that  is  why  you  are  so  interested  in  Giovanni?  I  knew 
it  was  like  that,  dear,"  with  another  soft  pressure  of  the  arm. 

"  In  Giovanni — in  any  boy  whose  life  might  be  made  brighter 
and  broader — in  any  boy  who  needs  help  or  a  friend.  It  might 
not  always  be  money  that  would  help  them  most.  It  might  be 
something-  else.  Whatever  is  done,  it  is  not  I  who  do  it — it  is  Leo. 
Leo,  who  will  never  be  tempted  or  made  sad  by  life,  but  who  goes 
on  living  and  holding  out  his  kind,  boyish,  friendly  young  hand 
to  other  boys  who  must  finish  their  lives  and  bear  all  the  burdens  of 
them.  He  was  spared  them  all.  He  lived  a  few  bright,  buoyant, 
joyous  years  without  a  shadow  or  a  stain.  Now  he  seems  to  me 
like  a  magnificent,  fair  young  prince  in  his  royal  city,  with  his  hands 


GIOVANNI  AND    THE  OTHER  15 

full  of  royal  gifts,  and  his  soul  full  of  tender  yearning  for  those  who 
are  outside  the  gates  and  who  must  toil  longer  in  the  heat  of  the 
sun." 

"And  he  will  help  Giovanni?"  said  her  friend.     "I  see  that." 

"  He  will  try,"  was  the  answer- 


III. 

The  little  salon  out  of  which  one  stepped  on  to  the  white  marble 
balcony  was  a  very  pretty  one.  It  had  not  been  particularly 
pretty  when  the  lady  in  black  and  her  friend  first  took  pos- 
session of  it.  Then  it  had  worn  the  usual  ungarnished  air  of  nearly 
all  hotel  rooms.  Now  it  was  quite  bright  and  gay.  The  curiosity 
shops  had  been  levied  upon  for  antique  brocades,  for  rich  tenderly- 
faded  old  vestments  whose  colors  of  a  hundred  or  two  years  ago 
had  melted  into  wondrous  shades,  and  which  were  draped  on  the 
walls,  and  thrown  over  pieces  of  furniture.  There  were  many  cush- 
ions covered  with  squares  of  such  brocade,  there  were  draperies 
over  the  doors,  there  were  Spanish  fans  and  odd  trifles  here  and 
there,  there  were  studies  of  peasants  and  the  Citta.  Vecchia,  and 
branches  of  orange  trees,  and  olives,  and  eucalyptus  blossom,  there 
were  bits  of  Louis  Quatorze  silver  and  china,  and  painted  and  gilded 
fans  on  the  mantel  ;  there  were  bowls  and  vases  of  jonquils  and 
mimosa,  and  narcissi  and  violets  everywhere — there  were  many  vio- 
lets, the  air  was  full  of  their  breath,  and  wheresoever  one's  eye 
turned  it  rested  on  the  pictured  face  of  a  boy,  who  watched  one  with 
shadowy  velvet  dark  eyes.  There  were  several  pictures  of  him,  and 
each  one  had  before  it  a  cluster  of  violets. 

"  He  had  always  been  used  to  seeing  me  wear  violets,"  his 
mother  said.  "  When  he  was  a  little  fellow  he  used  to  bring  me 
all  he  could  find  in  the  garden.  And  the  first  time  he  was  in 
London   he  saw   some   crystallized   bunches   in   a   confectioner's   in 


GIOVANNI  AND   THE  OTHER  lj 


Regent  Street,  and  he  spent  all  his  pennies  to  buy  me  some,  and 
brought  them  to  me  for  a  present,  with  such  an  innocent  pride. 
When  he  was  ill  and  people  sent  him  flowers,  he  used  to  say  to  his 
nurse :  '  Give  all  the  violets  to  mammie.  All  the  violets  are  for 
her.'  When  he  went  to  sleep  that  last  day  I  covered  him  with 
them.  In  the  medallion  with  his  miniature,  which  I  always  wear, 
there  is  one  shut  inside  with  him.  They  mean  so  much  more  to 
me  now." 

When  they  were  not  walking  or  driving  together  she  and  the 
girl  with  the  grey  eyes  used  to  sit  in  this  little  salon  among  the 
flowers  and  soft  colors  and  talk  of  their  problems  and  dreams 
and  imaginings.  They  had  a  great  many.  Theirs  was  a  very 
dear  friendship.  They  loved  and  understood  each  other  very  ten- 
derly and  completely.  They  had  the  same  emotions,  the  same 
fancies.  There  was  never  any  danger  that  one  could  be  too  imag- 
inative  or  subtle  for  the  other.  They  had  the  same  tastes  and 
sympathies  and  the  shades  in  which  they  varied  only  gave  interest 
to  their  thoughts  and  words. 

The  evening  after  they  had  met  Giovanni  was  mild  and  warm, 
and  the  windows  on  the  balcony  were  opeji.  The  lady  in  black  lay 
upon  a  sofa  with  many  cushions. 

In  the  midst  of  their  quiet  talk  the  strings  of  a  guitar  were 
touched  in  the  garden  below.  It  was  rather  a  good  guitar,  and 
the  opening  bars  of  a  song  were  being  played. 

"  Someone  is  going  to  sing,"  said  the  lady  in  black  ;  "  but  it  is 
not  Giovanni.     He  is  always  with  the  harpist." 

And  then  they  heard  the  singer  begin  his  song. 

"  It  is  far  from  being  Giovanni's  voice,"  exclaimed  Gertrude. 
"  Poor  thing,  how  bad  it  is." 

Her  friend  raised  her  head  to  listen. 

"And   it   is   a    boy's   voice,   too,"  she  said;    "but  it  sounds  all 


GIOVANNI  AND    THE  OTHER 


strained  and  cracked.  Ah,  how  pitiful.  He  ought  not  to  sing 
at  all." 

"  It  is  strained,"  said  Gertrude.  "  Poor  boy,  it  has  been  a  good 
voice  once — perhaps  as  good  as  Giovanni's.  But  he  has  been 
sineine  too  much,  and  has  forced  it  until  it  is  broken.  What  a 
cruel   pity !  " 

It  was  a  piteous  enough  thing  to  hear — the  poor  voice  rising 
from  among  the  palms  and  roses  below.  It  was  so  roughened,  so 
strained  and  broken. 

"  It  makes  me  sad,"  said  the  mother.  "  It  sounds  so  mournful 
rising  out  of  the  dark.  Giovanni  comes  and  sings  in  the  morn- 
ine  when  all  the  world  is  full  of  sunshine,  and  he  seems  like  a 
happy  young  bird.  This  poor  boy  stands  alone  there  in  the 
darkness  as  if  he  knew  his  helplessness  and  did  not  care  to  be 
seen.  I  wonder  if  Giovanni  knows  him  ;  if  he  knows  Giovanni, 
and  if  it  is  not  a  bitter  thing-  for  him.  Let  us  go  and  look  down  at 
lm. 

They  went  out  on  to  the  balcony  and  looked  down,  but  they 
could  not  really  see  the  singer.  They  could  only  imagine  they  saw 
a  shadow  which  might  after  all  be  part  of  the  shade  behind  some 
orange  trees  ;  but  the  poor  hoarse  voice  struggled  through  the  song 
to  the  end. 

"  No  one  opens  the  windows  to  throw  him  money,"  said  the 
lady  in  black.  "They  don't  want  to  hear  him.  I  do  not  want  to 
hear  him — it  is  too  sad ;  but  I  shall  throw  him  money.  He  needs 
it  more  than  Giovanni.  Everybody  gives  him  something — every- 
one wants  him.      No  one  wants  the  poor  other  one." 

They  put  some  silver  in  an  envelope  and  threw  it  down.  The 
shadow  seemed  to  move  forward  slowly  and  as  if  with  a  dragging 
step. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  the   lady  in  black,  "  I  have  a  fancy  that 


GIOVANNI  AND    THE   OTHER  19 

he  really  does  not  care  to  be  seen.      Let  us  go  back  into  the  salon." 

And  they  quietly  slipped  away. 

This  was  the  opening-  of  the  story  of  "the  Other."  It  was  a  sad 
story  and  he  was  never  more  than  a  shadow.  They  always  called 
him  "  the  Other,"  and  they  never  saw  him  ;  but  they  spoke  of  him 
even  more  than  they  spoke  of  Giovanni  whom  they  saw  three  times 
a  week. 

Somehow  the  poor  cracked  voice  singing  in  the  darkness  had 
touched  them  very  much.  It  was  so  evident  that  it  had  been  a 
beautiful  voice  once,  and  that  only  bad  management  and  perhaps 
bad  health  had  been  its  ruin. 

"  Do  you  know  who  the  poor  boy  is  who  sang  last  night?  "  they 
asked  the  concierge. 

"  No,  Madame,"  was  the  answer,  though  the  concierge  usually 
knew  everything.  "  He  does  not  come  often  and  it  is  always  dark. 
It  is  very  bad — his  singing.  The  people  do  not  like  it.  They  say 
it  disturbs  them,  it  is  so  bad." 

"It  is  too  late  to  save  his  voice  now,"  the  two  friends  said  to 
each  other  afterwards,  "  but  if  we  could  do  something  kind  for  him 
it  would  be  a  comfort." 

Only  it  was  plain  that  he  did  not  wish  to  be  seen.  He 
came  only  rarely,  and  always  at  night,  and  always  stood  in 
the  shadow  of  the  trees.  So  they  could  only  throw  him  money 
and  Pfo  back  to  their  salon  and  talk  to  each  other  about  him 
pityingly. 

Somehow  they  never  could  hear  Giovanni  or  speak  of  him  with- 
out speaking  also  of  "the  Other." 

"  No  one  but  ourselves  throws  him  money,"  said  the  lady  in 
black,  sadly,  once.  "  Perhaps  he  is  poor  and  comes  just  for  what 
he  gets  from  us.  It  makes  it  all  the  sadder.  Think  of  going  about 
from  place  to  place  singing  in  that  dreary,  piteous  voice,  and  know- 


20  GIOVANNI  AND   THE  OTHER 

ing  that  no  one  wishes  to  listen,  and  that  if  money  is  given  it  is  only 
from  pity  or  to  rid  oneself  of  the  annoyance  of  hearing.  To  me  it 
seems  a  sort  of  tragedy.  It  is  tragic  if  he  is  a  boy  who  feels  and 
thinks.  I  cannot  help  hoping  that  he  does  not  know  Giovanni,  and 
so  cannot  feel  the  contrast.  Giovanni  is  so  rosy  and  strong  and 
plump — I  feel  as  if  'the  Other'  must  be  thin  and  haggard  and  pale." 

"  He  is  a  story  to  you  too,"  said  Gertrude. 

"  Yes,  and  I  cannot  make  it  anything  but  a  sad  one." 

Because  it  was  a  sad  one  her  mind  dwelt  on  it.  She  found 
herself  wondering  each  day  if  at  night  the  broken  voice  wrould  sing 
in  the  dark.  They  did  not  hear  it  more  than  half  a  dozen  times, 
and  it  was  heard  on  no  stated  day. 

"Perhaps  it  is  wrong  even  to  throw  the  money  to  him,"  she  said. 
"  It  may  be  that  it  encourages  him  to  sing  ;  and,  perhaps,  if  he  did 
not  sing  at  all  and  gave  his  poor  voice  a  rest  it  might  recover  itself. 
Do  you  think  it  might,  Gertrude  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  not,"  Gertrude  answered ;  "  I  am  afraid  it  is  too  far 
pfone." 

The  next  day  they  sent  the  concierge  to  ask  Giovanni  to  come 
to  their  salon  to  talk  to  them. 

He  came  in  the  afternoon,  evidently  feeling  a  little  awkward,  but 
looking  rosy  and  pleased.  He  had  had  too  much  simple  success  and 
good  luck  to  be  really  very  shy. 

It  was  certainly  true  that  he  was  not  the  restless,  yearning,  am- 
bitious musical  genius  of  romance.  He  was  a  simple,  well-favored, 
good-humored  little  peasant,  fond  of  music  in  a  primitive  unimpas- 
sioned  way,  and  appreciative  of  the  good  fortune  which  had  given 
him  a  good  voice.  They  found  out  that  he  had  sometimes  been  to 
school,  that  he  had  once  had  three  "mentions,"  that  he  was  rather 
tired  of  street  singfiner,  that  he  had  been  taught  something  of  music 
by  a  certain  Maestro   Mecheri,  whose  business   it  was  to  train   the 


GIOVANNI  AXD    THE   OTHER 


choruses  at  the  tiny  theatre.  All  that  he  knew  of  his  singing  he 
had  learned  from  Maestro  Mecheri. 

"  Does  he  tell  you  that  you  have  a  very  good  voice  ?  "  asked 
the  lady  in  black. 

"  Yes,  Signora,  he  says  it  is  a  good  voice." 

"And  he  tells  you,  I  dare  say.  that  you  must  take  care  of  it  and 
not  strain  it  at  all  ?  " 

''Yes,  Signora,  he  warns  me  of  that." 

"  You  see,"  the  lady  went  on,  leaning  a  little  forward  and 
smiling,  "  you  are  growing.  In  a  short  time  it  will  change  into 
a  young  man's  voice  ;  and  if  you  force  it  and  go  on  singing  while 
it  is  changing  you  may  spoil  it  for  ever.  But  if  you  are  careful  it 
may  become  such  a  voice  as — as  everybody  shall  care  to  hear. 
Has  Maestro  Mecheri  told  you  that  ?  " 

It  was  plain  that  Maestro  Mecheri  was  not  an  imaginative  person 
himself,  and  that  he  confined  himself  to  the  present  and  his  imme- 
diate surroundings  principally.  The  limitations  of  his  experience 
were  perhaps  good  enough  under  the  circumstances. 

"  He  says  that  I  must  not  sing  in  the  streets  much  longer," 
said  Giovanni ;  "  and  I  must  live  well,  and  not  ramble  about  at 
night." 

"  He  is  quite  right,"  said  the  lady  in  black.  "  Have  you  ever 
thought  that  you  would  like  to  choose  music  for  a  profession — to 
care  for  your  voice  and  train  it  and  be  a  musician — a  singer  ?  " 
She  spoke  with  a  sense  of  some  inward  uncertainty.  He  was  so 
good-temperedly  prosaic  about  it  all. 

He  smiled  and  gave  a  little  shrug  of  his  shoulders.  "  I  should 
like  it,"  he  said.  "  Sometimes  they  make  fortunes,  they  say — those 
who  have  gfood  voices  and  sine  on  the  sta^e." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  lady  in  black.  "  A  beautiful  voice  is  a  great 
gift  and  brings  great  fortune   sometimes.      When   you   stop  singing 


2  2  GIOVANNI  AND    THE   OTHER 


in  the  street  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  you  to  go  to  school  again 
if  you  could.  It  would  prepare  you  to  learn  other  things  better — 
to  train  your  voice  and  study  music  more  easily — if  the  time  came 
when  you  wanted  to  do  it.  Maestro  Mecheri  would  tell  you  that 
too." 

"  It  is  possible,"  said  Giovanni.  "  He  tells  me  oftenest  I  must 
not  strain  my  voice  and  that  I  must  not  vagabond  about  at  night. 
There  is  a  boy  we  know  of  who  had  a  fine — it  was  very  fine — " 

The  lady  in  black  and  the  girl  with  the  grey  eyes  leaned  a  little 
more  towards  him  and  looked  interested,  and  rather  eager. 

"  He  used  to  sine  as  I  do,"  continued  Giovanni,  "  Maestro 
Mecheri  says  his  voice  was  even  better  than  mine.  People  gave 
him  a  great  deal  of  money  when  he  sang.  But  he  was  not  like  me. 
He  was  not  so  strong,  Maestro  Mecheri  said,  and  he  was  not  steady 
in  his  temper.  He  was  always  talking  about  music  and  having 
fancies  of  what  he  might  do  when  he  grew  up.  He  had  been  talked 
to  by  some  Signore  who  came  from  America,  and  it  had  put  ideas 
into  his  head.  Me — "  with  a  bright  simple  smile,  "  I  have  no  ideas. 
The  other — he  had  many,  and  they  made  him  restless." 

"The  Other,"  exclaimed  the  lady  in  black,  in  English.  And 
she  and  the  girl  with  the  grey  eyes  looked  at  each  other  again. 

"  They  spoiled  him,"  Giovanni  went  on.  "  He  used  to  sing  too 
much.  Maestro  Mecheri  said  he  was  too  impatient,  and  he  ought 
to  have  let  his  voice  rest.  He  was  older  than  I.  He  got  a  cold  and 
be^an  to  cou^h,  and  he  could  not  wait  until  it  was  better.  He  was 
hoarse  and  he  was  afraid  he  had  lost  his  voice,  and  he  would  keep 
trying  it  to  see  if  it  had  come  back.  But  it  sounded  cracked  and 
harsh.  And  he  lost  patience  and  began  to  vagabond  about  at 
night.  Often  he  did  not  go  to  bed  until  two  or  three  in  the 
morning.  Now  his  voice  is  quite  gone,  and  Maestro  Mecheri  says 
it  will  not  return." 


GIOVANNI  AND    THE  OTHER 


"What  is  his  name  ?  "  asked  Gertrude. 

Giovanni  gave  his  shade  of  a  shrug-  again. 

"  I  do  not  remember,"  he  said.  "  I  do  not  know  him.  Maestro 
Mecheri  told  me  of  him  as  a  warning-." 

"  There  is  a  boy  who  comes  and  sings  before  the  hotel  at  night 
sometimes,"  said  the  lady  in  black.  "  We  have  noticed  that  his 
voice  has  been  spoiled.      Perhaps  that  is  he." 

"Yes,  that  is  possible,"  said  Giovanni.  "  The  forestieri  used  to 
like  to  hear  him,  and  he  went  to  all  the  hotels.  They  say  there 
was  a  rich  Signora  at  one  hotel  who  was  a  singer  herself,  and  had 
made  her  fortune,  and  she  asked  him  into  her  salon  one  night  and 
made  him  sing  for  her.  And  he  pleased  her  so  much  that  she  told 
him  he  would  have  a  wonderful  life,  and  she  gave  him  twenty-five 
francs  for  himself.  They  say,"  with  an  innocently  amused  air, 
'•  that  she  also  kissed  him." 

"And  now  his  voice  is  quite  gone?"  exclaimed  the  lady  in  black. 

"  Maestro  Mecheri  says  it  is  lost  for  ever.  He  should  not  have 
had  ideas — and  strained  it,  and  become  such  a  vagabond." 

He  said  it  quite  simply,  and  without  any  air  of  ill-nature  or 
severity.      He  seemed  to  be  merely  stating  facts. 

"Where  does  he  live?  I  wish  you  knew  his  name,"  the  lady  in 
black  said. 

"  I  think  he  lives  somewhere  in  the  Citta  Vecchia,  but  I  do  not 
know  where.  He  is  ill,  they  say,  and  seldom  goes  out  now.  He 
caught  more  cold.      That  was  a  bad  thing  for  him." 

He  went  away  soon  afterwards.  They  had  learned  where  his 
mother  lived,  and  that  Maestro  Mecheri  might  be  found  and  talked 
to.  They  had  not  made  any  promises,  or  suggested  to  him  the 
possibility  of  their  having  plans.  He  went  off  with  a  present  of 
money  in  his  pocket  and  smiles  on  his  good-looking  face.  A  few 
minutes  before   he  went,  as  he  was  being  shown   a  book  of  Tuscan 


24  GIOVANNI  AND    THE  OTHER 

songs,  he  stood  near  a  table  which  held  one  of  the  pictures  of  the 
boy  with  the  shadowy,  dark  eyes. 

"Is  this  the  Signorino  who  sings  Italian,  and  is  in  America?" 
he  asked. 

The  lady  in  black  took  up  another  picture  and  passed  it  to  him. 

"  No,"  she  said  gently,  "  this  is  the  one  who  is  in  America." 

This  boy  wore  a  lace-ruffled  fancy  dress,  and  had  a  brilliantly 
happy  young  face  and  laughing  eyes.  He  leaned  carelessly  against 
a  carven  cabinet,  and  looked  out  at  the  beholders  as  if  mere  boy- 
ish life  itself  was  a  delightful  tiling.  Giovanni  regarded  him  with 
interest.  It  was  evident  to  him  that  this  Signorino  had  been  born 
to  crood  fortune.      He  was  smiling  himself  as  he  laid  it  down. 

"  And  this  other,"  he  said,  looking  at  the  first  picture.  "  Does 
he  also  sing — and  is  he  in  America  ?  " 

The  boy  in  the  picture — his  noble  young  face  turned  slightly 
over  his  shoulder — seemed  to  meet  the  young  peasant's  eyes  with  a 
soft,  questioning  glance.  For  the  moment  it  was  as  if  they  two 
looked  at  each  other  almost  as  they  might  have  done  if  they  had 
stood  face  to  face. 

"This  one,"  said  Giovanni,  after  a  moment's  silence.  "Is  he 
the  brother  of  the  other  Signorino — and  where  is  he  ?  " 

The  girl  with  the  grey  eyes  laid  her  hand  softly  on  his  shoulder 
and  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  even  softer  than  her  touch. 

"This  one,"  she  said,  "he  died  three  months  ago." 


IV. 

Brigita  climbed  slowly  up  the  steep  narrow  streets  of  the  Citta. 
Vecchia — the  streets  which  were  so  narrow  as  to  be  mere 
passages  between  the  old,  old  houses,  protected  against  the 
ruin  of  possible  earthquakes  by  the  many  archways  thrown  across 
from  wall  to  wall.  It  was  these  old  houses,  and  narrow,  passage- 
like steep  streets  and  unexpected  archways  which  gave  the  Citta 
Vecchia — which  means  simply  the  old  city — its  picturesqueness,  and 
made  the  forestieri  climb  up  to  see  it  so  often  and  make  sketches  of 
corners  of  it.  It  seemed  a  marvellous  old  place  to  the  forestieri  ; 
and  during  the  winter  season,  when  the  hotels  and  villas  were  filled 
with  them,  the  peasants  in  the  Old  City  became  quite  used  to  seeing 
groups  of  two  or  three  well-dressed  people  rambling  about,  stopping 
to  look  up  dark  narrow  stone  stairways,  or  tiny  iron-barred  windows, 
or  delioditino-  themselves  with  a  tumble-down  wall  or  a  crumbling 
arch  with  green  weeds  sprouting  out  of  its  stones,  high  in  the  air. 
The  forestieri  had  these  queer  ways.  They  who  were  rich,  and  lived 
in  the  grand  hotels  and  white  villas,  and  wore  wonderful  garments, 
would  stop  and  watch  a  serious  mule  or  donkey  laden  with  fagots 
or  sacks  of  olive,  stumbling  honestly  up  the  hill-side  streets,  its 
burden  almost  touching  the  walls  on  each  side,  and  they  wrould  look 
at  it  as  if  it  were  a  wonder,  and  as  if  the  peasant-woman  walking 
beside  it  with  her  weather-worn,  dark  face,  framed  with  a  red  or 
yellow  and  green  handkerchief  tied  over  her  black  hair  and  under 
her  chin,  as  if  she  were  a  wonder  too.      And  sometimes  they  had 


26  GIOVANNI  AND    THE   OTHER 


been  known  to  make  sketches  of  both— as  if  there  were  not  real  and 
grand  pictures  of  Madonnas,  and  saints,  and  angels  in  the  fine  pic- 
ture galleries  of  the  great  cities  they  were  always  rambling  about 
the  world  to  visit.  The  peasants  thought  that  all  this  came  about 
because  they  had  nothing  to  do,  and  were  so  idle  that  it  made  them 
childish. 

Brigita — who  was  Giovanni's  mother — did  not  suspect  for  a 
moment  that  she  was  picturesque.  She  did  not  know  what  pictur- 
esque meant.  She  knew  the  young  men  had  called  her  a  pretty 
girl  years  ago,  before  she  had  married  Cola  and  had  had  children 
and  worked  so  hard.  Then  she  had  been  plump  and  had  had 
lausrhinsf  white  teeth  and  bright  eyes,  and  there  had  been  red  on 
her  brown  cheeks  and  a  curl  in  her  thick  hair.  But  now  she  con- 
sidered herself  an  old  woman,  though  she  was  not  one  as  the  fores- 
tieri  counted  years.  She  had  worked  in  the  house,  among  the  chil- 
dren and  the  beasts,  she  had  worked  at  the  olive  harvest  and  the 
grape  gathering,  and  had  done  all  sorts  of  things  on  the  bit  of  land 
Cola  rented  in  the  campagna,  and  she  had  grown  sinewy,  and  there 
were  lines  on  her  face,  and  her  black  hair  was  always  more  or  less 
rough  under  the  red  or  yellow  and  green  handkerchief  tied  over 
it.  She  had  never  owned  a  bonnet.  It  would  have  troubled  her 
almost  as  much  as  a  crown.  It  was  only  the  forestieri — the  signo- 
ras — who  wore  little  things  made  of  silk  and  lace  and  feathers  and 
flowTers. 

And  if  she  did  not  know  that  she  was  a  picturesque  object  her- 
self, how  much  less  did  she  suspect  that  her  donkey  clambering  by 
her  side  with  a  burden  of  fodder  twice  as  large  as  himself,  was  a 
sort  of  picture  also..  He  was  a  little  shaggy,  grey,  patient-faced 
beast,  with  soft,  furry  long  ears  and  long  black  eyelashes,  and  his 
grave  little  face  and  slow  toiling  steps  and  big  load  were  exactly 
the  things  to  put  in  a  sketch  of  the   narrow  steep  streets  with  the 


GIOVANNI  AND    THE   OTHER  27 

ancient  irregular  houses  on  either  side  of  them,  and  the  unexpected 
arches  sprung  into  straggling  weed  growth. 

Brigita  had  been  to  the  campagna  to  help  Cola  with  the  olive 
gathering.  Giovanni,  though  he  was  her  eldest  son  and  of  work- 
ing age,  had  not  been  with  them,  because  the)'  had  found  out  that 
he  could  be  more  useful  to  them  if  he  were  allowed  to  use  his  time 
and  strength  in  another  way.  His  sing-ino-  was  a  good  thino-  for 
them,  and  Maestro  Mecheri  had  said  it  was  better  that  he  should 
not  be  put  to  labor  that  would  tire  him,  because  it  was  not  good  for 
his  voice.  And  it  did  not  matter  so  that  he  brought  in  help  one 
way  or  another,  and  upon  the  whole  his  voice  brought  in  much  more 
than  his  labor  in  the  fields  or  vineyards  would  have  done. 

When  she  had  climbed  up  the  street  to  her  own  door  and  un- 
loaded the  donkey  and  driven  him  into  his  rough  stable  with  the 
iron-barred  windows,  she  gave  him  some  food  and  mounted  the 
steep,  dark  stone  stairway  which  took  to  the  rooms  where  she  lived. 

When  she  opened  the  door  and  entered  the  living  room  a  wiry 
little  elderly  man  rose  from  a  chair  at  her  entrance. 

"Good  day,  Brigita,"  he  said.      "I  have  been  waiting  for  you/' 

It  was  Maestro  Mecheri. 

"  Good  day,  Maestro,"  she  answered.  "  I  have  been  at  work  at 
the  olive  gathering  with  Cola.  There  is  quite  a  good  crop,  but  the 
olives  are  small.     There  has  not  been  enough  rain." 

"That  is  true,"  answered  Maestro  Mecheri.  "We  have  needed 
rain  for  many  weeks.  I  have  come  to  talk  with  you  about 
Giovanni." 

"  Has  anything-  gone  wrong  with  him?"  she  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Maestro  Mecheri,  ''he  has  good  luck,  that  ragazzo. 
He  has  a  fine  voice  and  is  strong,  and  not  troubled  with  ideas. 
And  he  is  good-looking.  Often  I  believe  money  is  given  as  much 
to  his  merry  eyes  and  white  teeth  as  to  his  singing.      The  forestieri 


GIOVANNI  AND   THE   OTHER 


like  his  cheerful,  handsome  face.    It  is  good  luck  to  be  born  looking 
like  that.      It  has  possibly  made  his  fortune  for  him." 

"  In  what  way,  Santa  Maria  !  "  exclaimed  Brigita. 

"The  forestieri  have  ways  of  their  own,"  said  the  Maestro. 
"There  are  two  Signore  who  have  heard  him  sing  and  have  taken 
a  fancy  to  him." 

"Yes,"  Brigita  interrupted,  "they  sent  the  concierge  of  their 
hotel  to  tell  him  to  come  to  their  salon  the  other  day.  Giovanni 
told  me  about  it.  It  was  all  hung  with  old  brocades  and  pictures 
and  fans,  such  as  one  sees  in  the  shops  for  antiquities,  and  it  was 
filled  with  flowers,  and  there  were  many  pictures  of  a  boy  who  is 
dead.  His  mother  was  the  one  who  sent  the  concierge  to  Gio- 
vanni." 

"  Yes,"  said  Maestro  Mecheri,  "  that  is  it — and  that  is  the  point. 
That  is  why  I  say  they  have  ways  of  their  own,  the  forestieri.  Most 
people  when  a  child  dies — if  they  are  rich — bury  him  finely  and  have 
masses  said  and  hang  black  and  white  bead  wreaths  on  his  tomb. 
They  are  very  handsome,  those  bead  wreaths  with  'mio  figlio,'  or  'mia 
madre,'  and  other  sentiments  upon  them.  I  have  even  seen  a  little 
weeping  willow  made  of  green  beads  bending  over  a  headstone. 
There  are  beautiful  ornaments  for  the  dead  made  of  beads.  And 
this  signora  must  be  rich,  but  she  seems  to  have  queer  ideas;  she 
did  not  explain  them  much  to  me,  but  I  gathered  some  of  her  fan- 
cies from  some  few  things  she  said.  It  seems  as  if  she  were  not  con- 
tent that  the  boy's  life  should  be  ended  on  earth  and  continue  only 
in  Paradise.  She  has  a  strange  wish  that  he  should  seem  still  to 
live  on  earth  and  do  things  for  other  boys.  It  is  singular,  but  it  is 
a  eood  thine  for  Giovanni.      She  came  to  see  me  about  him." 

Brigita  made  a  gesture  of  amazement.  Her  eyes  had  been  wide 
open  before ;   now  her  mouth  opened. 

"  Yes,"  continued  the  Maestro,  scratching  his  grizzled,   curling 


GIOVANNI  AND    THE   OTHER  29 


poll;  "she  has  a  wish  that  this  boy  of  hers — who  is  in  Paradise — 
should  help  Giovanni.  She  did  not  say  it  exactly,  but  I  could  see 
she  had  some  fancy — I  guessed  it  from  her  face,  and  from  her  voice 
which  trembled  when  she  spoke.      I  am  not  a  dull  fellow." 

"  What  does  she  want  to  do  ?  "  said  Brigita.  "  It  makes  one  feel 
strange — such  an  idea,  I  am  not  sure  I  like  it.  It  might  brin«-  ill- 
fortune — like  the  evil  eye — to  have  a  person  who  is  dead  watching 
over  one." 

Maestro  Mecheri  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"That  is  stupid,"  he  said.  "It  is  the  idea  of  a  peasant."  He 
knew  that  Brigita  was  a  peasant  and  quite  a  common  and  ordinary 
one,  and  he  who  was  a  professional  person  connected  with  the  theatre 
did  not  shrink  from  speaking  his  mind  to  her.  "  It  is  a  good  thing 
for  Giovanni,  and  her  plans  are  sensible  in  spite  of  her  fancies.  She 
says  that  he  has  a  voice  which  might  bring  him  fame  and  fortune,  if 
he  does  not  strain  it  by  singing  too  long,  and  if  it  is  trained  after- 
wards. She  says  that  out  of  the  fortune  of  her  son  she  will  pay  you 
a  sum  which  will  make  it  possible  for  you  and  Cola  to  afford  to  let 
him  stop  singing  in  the  street,  and  he  shall  go  to  school  for  a  year 
or  so,  until  his  voice  is  changed.  I  am  to  watch  over  him  and  let 
her  know  when  it  will  be  safe  to  begin  training  him.  And  I  am  in 
the  meantime  to  teach  him  all  I  know  about  music,  that  it  may  help 
him  when  he  can  begin  practising." 

"It  is  like  a  romance,"  said  Brigita,  staring.  "  They  have  ideas 
— the  forcstieri.      It  is  well  they  have  money  also." 

Maestro  Mecheri  rubbed  his  chin  and  looked  at  her  with  a 
superior  scrutiny.  It  was  of  course  natural  that  a  peasant  woman 
should  not  understand  all  this  might  mean. 

"  It  may  make  a  rich  man  of  him,"  he  said.  "If  his  voice  is  a 
very  fine  one — as  I  think  it  will  be — he  may  make  a  great  fortune. 
He  may  sing  in   great   cities — perhaps   before    the   king — and    the 


GIOVANNI  AND   THE  OTHER 


impressarios  will  pay  immense  sums  every  night.  It  was  so  with 
Mario,  it  is  so  with  Patti.  There  is  nothing  so  valuable  as  a  voice 
all  the  world  wants  to  hear." 

Brio-ita  laughed  a  little. 

"  One  cannot  bring-  one's  mind  all  at  once  to  thinking  that  of 
one's  own  child,"  she  said.  "  It  would  be  queer  enough  to  think 
of  Giovanni  singing  before  the  kino-  !  " 

"  If  he  has  good  fortune,"  said  Maestro  Mecheri,  "  that  may  all 
come  in  time.  The  Signora  wished  me  to  see  you  and  Cola  and 
explain  to  you  and  ask  you  if  you  were  willing.  She  is  going  away 
soon  herself  and  wishes  it  arranged." 

Brigita  laughed  a  little  vaguely  again. 

"  You  must  come  and  see  Cola,"  she  said. 

"  You  will  not  be  such  imbeciles  as  to  refuse  ?  "  said  the 
Maestro. 

"What  one  has,  one  has,"  she  answered,  "and  one  cannot  be 
sure  of  what  his  voice  will  be  when  he  is  a  young  man.  But  as  she 
will  give  something  to  make  up  to  us  for  losing  his  work  now,  I  do 
not  think  Cola  will  care.  And  as  for  me — it  is  all  the  same  so  that 
one  has  something  in  one's  hand." 

"  He  could  not  sing  more  than  a  year,"  said  the  Maestro.  "You 
know  how  the  other  boy's  voice  was  lost  and  how  he  broke  down. 
His  was  magnificent,"  with  another  rub  at  his  grizzled  curls,  and  a 
queer  look  and  tone  of  regret.  ''It  was  magnificent.  He  would 
have  sung  before  the  king — it  could  not  have  been  otherwise.  It 
was  a  great  misfortune  for  him." 

"You  mean  the  son  of  Lisa  ?"  said  Brigita.  "He  died  last 
night,  and  she  is  almost  mad,  they  say." 

Maestro  Mecheri's  look  of  regret  took  on  a  sudden  spasmodic 
deepening. 

"Did  he?  "he  said.      " Povcrino  !     Poverino  J '" 


GIOVANNI  AND    THE   OTHER 


"  He  has  been  dying  for  months,"  said  Brigita,  "  but  she  would 
not  believe  it.      He  coughed  until  he  was  worn  to  a  skeleton." 

"  Ah  !  "  sisfhed  Maestro  Mecheri.  "And  he  mieht  have  sune 
before  kings  !      It  was  a  wonderful  voice." 

"But  he  is  dead,"  said  Brigita,  unemotionally.  "He  died  last 
nisrht." 


V. 

The  lady  in  black  and  her  friend  had  always  been  very  fond  of 
the  Citta  Vecchia.  They  often  climbed  up  the  steep  hill- 
side streets  and  visited  the  most  unique  corners  of  it.  They 
knew  the  narrowest  passages,  the  archways,  and  dark  little  stone 
stairways ;  the  queer  barred  windows  through  which  one  could  look 
into  the  darkness  and  see  a  sheep  or  two,  or  a  donkey,  or  a  calf. 
They  knew  the  fountains  where  water  was  drawn  and  the  big  one 
where  the  women  stood  around  the  square  stone  basin  and  washed 
their  clothes,  talking  and  laughing  together.  They  knew  the  white 
church  at  the  top  of  the  highest  point,  the  Madonna  della  Costa, 
where  the  peasants  went  to  Mass,  and  where  there  were  so  many 
queer  votive  pictures — small,  violently  colored  and  strangely  de- 
signed things  representing  the  scene  of  some  catastrophe  from  which 
the  victim  had  been  rescued  by  some  patron  saint.  These  were 
always  interesting  to  examine,  as  each  one  told  its  story.  There 
were  pictures  of  storms  at  sea  with  fisher  boats  apparently  about  to 
be  engulfed,  there  were  pictures  of  runaway  horses  on  the  point  of 
dashing  someone  to  pieces,  there  were  others  of  lightning  striking, 
of  sufferers  from  dangerous  illness,  from  casualties  of  all  kinds,  and 
generally  in  some  corner  was  depicted  the  figure  of  the  Saint  or  Ma- 
donna descending  from  Paradise  to  interpose  the  sacred  protection 
between  the  victim  and  impending  death.  Each  one  had  been  given 
in  commemoration  and  gratitude.  They  were  simple  and  primitive 
beyond  description,  but  the  faith  they  showed  was  a  touching  thing. 


GIOVANNI  AND    THE  OTHER  33 

"Only,"  the  girl's  friend  used  to  say  to  her,  "I  should  like  to 
know  who  the  artist  is  who  does  them.  They  are  so  wonderful. 
Perhaps  there  is  an  artist  among-  the  peasants  in  the  Citta  Vecchia 
who  does  them  all,  and  is  quite  celebrated  in  his  way." 

During  the  last  days  the  two  friends  spent  in  San  Remo  they 
went  two  or  three  times  to  the  old  city. 

One  beautiful  afternoon  they  turned  into  the  climbing  streets 
after  leaving  their  favorite  flower  shop,  loaded  with  white  narcissus 
and  hyacinths,  gold-yellow  daffodils,  and  scarlet  and  pink  anemones. 

They  climbed  to  Brigita's  house  and  up  her  dark  little  stone 
stairway  to  pay  her  a  visit. 

Brigita  looked  with  open  curiosity  at  the  Signora,  whose  mass 
of  flowers  looked  so  bright  against  her  black  dress  and  pale  face. 

But  there  was  nothing  eccentric  or  curious  about  her.  She  was 
very  quiet  and  civil,  and  had  a  low  voice,  and  eyes  which  seemed  to 
have  wept  a  great  deal. 

"She  has  wept  for  the  boy  who  is  in  Paradise,"  Brigita 
thouofht.  "PoverinaJ  but  he  is  better  there,  after  all — though  it  is 
true  he  was  a  Signorine." 

The  visit  was  not  a  long  one.  It  was  all  settled  about  Giovanni 
by  this  time.  Cola  had  given  his  consent  and  the  rest  had  been 
easily  arranged.  The  forestien,  it  seemed,  did  not  hesitate  about 
parting  with  their  money  when  they  had  decided  to  do  so.  Gio- 
vanni had  the  chance  to  be  a  singer  if  he  chose  to  work  and  his 
voice  turned  out  well. 

Anion  or  other  things  the  Si?;nora  had  given  Brigita  a  new  dress 
and  bright  head  handkerchief.  The  handkerchief  was  quite  won- 
derful and  the  dress  was  one  that  would  last  for  years. 

"But  when  Giovanni  is  a  great  tenor,"  said  the  Signora,  smiling, 
"you  will  have  more  dresses  than  one." 

Brigita  smiled  also,  good-humoredly. 


34  GIOVANNI  AND   THE  OTHER 

"  That  is  a  long  time  to  look  forward  to,"  she  said ;  "  who  knows 
what  will  happen  ?" 

"  I  hope  what  happens  will  make  you  both  happy,"  the  Signora 
said. 

"Giovanni,"  said  Brigita,  "he  will,  of  course,  be  happy  if  he 
becomes  well-to-do;  and,  for  the  matter  of  that,  so  shall  I." 

She  was  standing  near  the  window  when  she  said  this,  and  she 
looked  out  and  shrugged  her  shoulders  pityingly. 

"  Ah,  there  goes  one  who  is  not  happy,"  she  said  ;  it  is  that  poor 
Lisa,  whose  boy  died." 

"  Poor  woman  !  "  exclaimed  the  Signora,  drawing  near  ;  "  when 
did  she  lose  him  ?  " 

"Only  two  weeks  ago,"  Brigita  answered.  "And  it  seems  as 
if  she  would  go  after  him.  He  used  to  sine,  too,  like  Giovanni,  and 
he  lost  his  voice  and  caught  cold,  and  fell  ill  and  coughed  himself 
to  death.  Before  he  was  too  ill  to  leave  his  bed,  he  used  to  drag- 
himself  to  the  terrace  below  the  church  and  sit  on  the  low  wall  and 
stare  down  into  the  olive  vineyards  and  over  the  sea  to  the  point 
where  one  can  see  the  other  church — the  Madonna  della  Guardia. 
He  was  very  wretched  after  his  voice  was  gone.  It  seemed  as  if  he 
did  not  care  to  live.  And  now  his  mother  goes  and  leans  on  that 
wall  every  afternoon  when  her  work  is  done,  and  stares,  as  he  used 
to,  at  the  church,  and  the  olives,  and  the  sea,  only  that  she  is  always 
crying.  They  say  she  is  crying  herself  blind.  Her  man  died 
young  ;   she  had  nothing  but  the  boy." 

The  girl  with  the  grey  eyes  approached  her  friend  and  put  a 
liofht,  loving"  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"It  is  very  sad,"  she  said. 

'l  It  is  the  story  of  '  the  Other,' "  the  lady  in  black  answered.  "  I 
knew  it  must  be  sad  ;    I  felt  it  in  my  heart." 


VI. 

When  they  found  themselves  out  in  the  street  a  little  later, 
it  was  as  if  involuntarily  they  turned  towards  the  steps 
which  led  to  the  church  of  Madonna  della  Costa.  Just 
below  the  inclined  paved  steps  leading  to  it  was  the  terrace  with  the 
low  wall,  against  which  one  could  lean  and  look  down  the  almost 
precipitous  hillside  on  to  the  olive  vinevards  and  the  shallow  stream. 
By  turning  one's  gaze  to  the  right,  one  swept  across  olives  and 
villas  and  palms  to  the  curve  of  the  shore,  from  which  rose  the  hill 
where  the  white  little  church  of  Madonna  della  Guardia  kept  watch 
over  the  blue  sea  and  those  who  braved  its  dangers — if  there  could 
ever  lurk  dangers  in  the  softly  rippling  lake-like  calm. 

It  was  a  lovely  point  to  look  out  from,  this  low  wall  high  up  in 
the  "  old  city,"  which  was  so  tiny  that  it  was  more  like  a  precipi- 
tous, huddled  village  than  a  town,  though  it  was  always  called  the 
"  Citta  Vecchia." 

As  the  friends  drew  near  this  point,  they  saw  the  figure  ot  a 
peasant  woman  leaning  with  arms  folded  on  the  grassy  stone  ledge 
before  her.  She  was  not  only  poorly,  but  carelessly  dressed.  One 
imagined  that  she  had  felt  that  it  was  of  no  consequence  to  herself 
or  to  others  if  her  bodice  was  ill-fastened,  her  crinkly  black  hair 
unkempt,  and  her  head  handkerchief  ill-tied  and  awry. 

She  was  staring  straight  before  her  at  the  hills  and  the  sea,  and, 
seemingly,  scarcelv  noticing  the  words  of  another  woman  who  stood 
by  her  with  a  bundle  of  fagots  on  her  head  and  her  hand  on  her  hip. 


36  GIOVANNI  AND    THE  OTHER 


But  the  two  fores tier i  heard  what  this  woman  was  saying"  in  a 
well-meaning  but  commonplace  tone. 

"  Patienza,  Lisa,  patienza!"  she  said.  "Of  what  good  is  all 
this?  Sorrow  is  natural  enough  when  one's  child  dies,  if  one  has 
not  so  many  that  one  can  be  spared  because  one  feels  that  it  will  be 
better  cared  for.  But  to  go  mad  with  grief  and  weep  one's  eyes 
away  when  one  has  no  one  left  to  be  eyes  and  hands  for  one — 
nothing  but  harm  can  come  of  it.  And  it  cannot  be  denied  that  he 
could  never  have  been  happy  again — Pasquale  !  He  had  lost  his 
voice  for  good,  and  could  not  turn  to  anything  else  because  he  was 
always  mourning  and  wretched.  It  is  not  as  if  he  had  kept  his 
health  and  his  voice  as  well,  and  had  been  a  healthy,  handsome 
fellow  like  Giovanni,  whom  they  say  some  rich  forestieri  have  taken 
a  fancy  to  and  are  going  to  make  into  a  grand  singer." 

Lisa  turned  her  face  upon  the  speaker.  Her  tear- inflamed  eyes 
seemed  suddenly  to  glare  a  little  like  a  panther's. 

"Hush!"  she  said.  "I  know  about  that;  you  may  be  sure 
enough  someone  told  me.  You  may  be  sure  that  now  is  the  time — 
now  that  he  is  dead — dead — like  that — that  I  shall  hear  of  some 
other — some  other — " 

She  choked  and  dropped  her  head  in  her  hands.  Her  thin 
breast  heaved  and  struggled  as  if  it  were  imprisoning  some  fierce 
swelling"  thino-  which  strucro-led  to  get  out. 

"Go,"  she  said.  "I  wish  you  no  ill — but  carry  your  fagots 
home.      You  mean  well,  but  I  want  to  stand  here  alone." 

The  peasant  woman  stared  at  her  a  second  with  a  questioning 
face,  and  then  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  went  away,  turning 
into  the  sloping  street  near  by. 

The  lady  in  black  was  breathing  quickly. 

"  It  is  the  mother  of  '  the  Other,'  "  she  whispered  to  her  friend. 
"  I  can   understand.      She   is  like   me — only  that  my   boy  was   not 


SHE    PUT    OUT    HER   HAND    AND    LAID    IT    ON    THE    PEASANT  S    ARM. 


GIOVANNI  AND    THE  OTHER  39 


tired  of  his  life.  Perhaps  two  women  like  us  will  know  what  to 
say  to  each  other." 

The  girl's  grey  eyes  had  tears  in  them. 

"Yes,"  she  said — "yes,  dear,  but  she  will  not  know  that  I 
can  understand,  too  ;  she  will  only  think  that  I  am  a  Signorina 
and  one  of  the  forestieri,  and  she  won't  want  me.  I  will  slip 
away." 

It  was  a  curious  thing  which  happened  when  the  lady  in  black 
drew  quietly  near  to  the  peasant.  Her  consoler  having  left  her,  the 
woman  had  covered  her  worn  face — almost  clutched  it — with  her 
hands,  and  the  straining,  swelling  wild  thino-  heaving  her  breast 
had  broken  its  bounds  and  was  shaking  her  with  tearing  sobs. 

It  was  an  awful  thing.  Only  mothers  sob  like  that — mothers 
who  have  looked  into  a  yawning  grave  where  beautiful  young  hope 
and  exultant  buoyancy  and  strength  lie  still — still  and  alone. 

The  other  mother  felt  the  wild  tiling  swelling  in  her  own  breast, 
and  tearing  it.  Great  drops  rushed  up  and  swept  down  her  face, 
and  she  put  out  her  hand  and  laid  it  on  the  peasant's  arm. 

"  I — know  you  cannot  help  it,"  she  said  brokenly. 

They  were  the  first  simple  words  that  came  to  her.  Somehow 
it  seemed  merely  human  that  there  should  be  at  that  moment  no 
barrier  between  them.  They  were  not  Signora  and  peasant — for- 
estiere  and  Italian  woman  of  the  people,  they  were  only  two  mothers 
who  had  lost  the  blood  of  their  hearts. 

The  woman  raised  her  poor  face,  wet,  lined,  desperate. 

Their  eyes  looked  into  each  other. 

The  other  mother's  face  was  wet,  too,  and  suddenly  she,  too, 
leaned  against  the  wall. 

"  Your  boy  died,"  she  said.      "  Mine  is  dead,  too." 

"Yes,"  said  Lisa,  hoarsely,  and  looking  at  the  pale  face  and  black 
draperies.      "  I  have  heard  them  speak  of  you.     But  you — you  are 


40  GIOVANNI  AND    THE  OTHER 

a  rich  Signora — and  he,  your  son,  he  wanted  nothing."  And  she 
bowed  her  head  again. 

"He — he  wanted  lifeT  whispered  the  lady  in  black;  "and  I 
could  not  give  it  him  !  "  She  pressed  her  hand  on  her  breast.  "  I 
could  not  buy  it,  or  beg  it,  or  search  for  it  on  my  hands  and  knees, 
or  work  for  it  like  a  servant,  as  if  I  had  never  been  a  lady  at  all. 
No  one  could  sell  it  or  give  it  to  me — no  one  in  all  the  great,  pow- 
erful, wonderful  world  where  the  wise  men  know  so  much.  I  had 
always  given  him  everything  else  ;  he  thought  I  could  give  him  any- 
thing— but  I  could  not  give  him  that ;  and  he  was  so  young,  and  it 
seemed  so  beautiful  to  him,  and  he  wanted  it !  "  And  she  bowed 
her  head,  too. 

"  Pasquale  " — said  Lisa — -"  my  boy  did  not  want  it." 

"Try — try  to  be  comforted  that  he  was  not  forced  to  bear  it," 
said  the  other.  "  But.  ah  !  poor  woman  !  God  help  you,  if  he  did 
not  want  it." 

"He  wanted  it  once,"  cried  the  peasant;  "he  loved  it  three 
years  ago,  two  years  ago.  It  was  all  the  voice — the  beautiful  silver 
voice  that  broke  his  heart — that  was  false  and  deserted  him,  that 
tricked  him  and  left  him  to  die." 

"  Poor  boy  !  Poor  boy!"  wept  the  woman  near  her.  And  the 
peasant  knew  that  the  tears  were  for  the  young  dead  she  had  never 
seen. 

"  He  always  sang,"  she  went  on;  "when  he  was  a  tiny  thing 
with  round  cheeks  and  big,  black  eyes — so  pretty  that  the  fores 'tier  i 
stared  at  him  and   crave  him  soldi  for  his   o"ood  looks  and  his  lono- 

<^>  o  £> 

eye-lashes — even  then  he  could  sing.  He  used  to  try  and  make 
sounds  like  the  birds,  and  if  he  heard  an  air  in  the  street  he  would 
try  to  repeat  it,  and  then  clasp  his  little  hands  and  laugh  for  pleasure 
when  he  had  made  it  right.  And  I  was  proud  of  it,  and  boasted  of 
him  to  the  neighbors,  and  made  him  sine  for  them.     He  was  like  a 


GIOVANNI  AND    THE  OTHER  4 1 


little  bird  ;  he  put  his  head  on  one  side  like  one  when  he  sat  on  my 
knee  and  sang"  looking  from  under  his  lashes.  They  were  as  long 
as  that,"  measuring  on  her  finders,  "and  he  had  curls  like  a  Gesu 
Bambino,  and  soft  cheeks  and  strange  eyes  which  seemed  always  to 
be  listening  for  music  in  the  air,  such  as  we  could  not  hear;  And  I 
was  proud  and  let  him  sing.  I  ought  to  have  put  my  hand  over  his 
little  red  mouth  and  killed  it  then — then  ;  that  voice  of  silver  and 
gold  that  was  such  a  traitor  and  a  false  friend." 

"  But  you  loved  it  and  were  happy,"  said  her  hearer.  "  I  know  ; 
I  have  one  boy  left.      He  sings." 

"  The  saints  give  to  him  that  it  may  not  end  in  grief,"  said 
Lisa.  "  We  were  poor  peasants,  poor  enough,  when  he  was  old 
enough  to  go  into  the  streets;  it  was  a  fine  thing  for  us  that  he 
could  go  and  sing.  He  was  so  handsome,  and  his  voice  was  such  a 
wonder  that  the  forestieri  liked  him.  They  gave  him  money  and 
were  always  praising  and  petting  him.  There  was  no  other  boy 
who  lived  like  him.  It  was  almost  as  if  he  had  been  a  real  Signo- 
rine,  though  he  lived  here  in  the  Citta  Vecchia.  If  he  did  not  sing 
one  day  before  a  hotel  or  a  villa,  the  next  day  they  would  ask  why 
he  did  not  come.  If  he  had  been  only  like  other  boys  and  cared  for 
nothing  but  the  praise  and  the  money,  it  would  have  been  all  right. 
But  he  was  not  like  that.  He  had  strange  feelings  about  his  music, 
and  he  was  always  finding  something  to  read  about  singing  and 
great  singers.  I  loved  him  and  he  loved  me,  and  I  listened  with  all 
my  heart  when  he  talked,  but  I  did  not  quite  understand.  He  knew 
I  did  not,  but  still  he  loved  me,  and  always  told  his  thoughts  to  me. 
He  loved  his  voice,  it  was  his  treasure,  and  he  wanted  his  life  to  be 
all  music.  He  was  willing  to  work  all  day  and  all  night  if  he  might 
sing  well  in  the  end.  And  they  told  him — the  forestieri,  who  knew 
about  voices,  and  Maestro  Mecheri — that  he  might  some  day  be  a 
great  singer — a   great  one  !  " 


42  GIOVANNI  AND    THE  OTHER 

"He  might  have  been,"  said  the  listener.  "Yes,  I  know  that 
is  true.  He  might  have  been  and — "  She  hesitated  a  moment 
with  parted  lips;  a  strange  light  of  thought  seemed  to  leap  into  her 
eyes,  and  rest  there,  though  she  did  not  finish. 

"He  used  to  come  here  and  lean  against  the  wall  at  sunset," 
said  Lisa.  "  He  would  look  out  over  the  sea  to  the  Madonna  della 
Guardia,  and  it  would  seem  as  if  he  were  in  a  dream.  When  he 
came  in  to  eat  it  would  seem  as  if  he  had  just  wakened  with  a  smile 
on  his  lips.  It  was  then  that  he  was  seeing  his  visions  of  what  he 
would  do  when  he  was  a  young  man,  and  the  whole  world  loved 
him  because  his  voice  was  of  silver  and  gold." 

Her  voice  fell,  and  she  remained  silent  a  moment,  resting  her 
forehead  on  her  hand.     Then  she  began  again  : 

"I  do  not  know  how  it  first  changed,"  she  said;  "Maestro 
Mecheri  thought  that  he  was  not  really  strong,  though  he  looked 
so,  and  he  caught  cold,  and  sang  when  he  should  not.  One  day  he 
came  in  to  me  with  a  strange  look  on  his  face.  He  told  me  that  he 
had  tried  to  sing,  but  he  could  not.  His  voice  had  sounded  as  if  it 
were  the  voice  of  another.  He  tried  to  be  patient  at  first.  He 
waited  two  days,  and  then  went  out  again.  But  he  could  not  make 
the  right  sounds.  It  was  like  that  many  times — then  he  tried  to 
rest,  and  still  it  seemed  to  do  no  good.  Maestro  Mecheri  said  he 
did  not  wait  long  enough,  and  perhaps  his  voice  had  already  begun 
to  change,  or  perhaps  it  was  that  his  malady  had  even  then  struck 
him.  One  night  when  I  came  in  I  found  him  sitting  alone.  His 
face  was  white,  and  his  forehead  was  damp  with  sweat.  He  was 
hoarse  when  he  spoke.  He  said,  '  I  cannot  sing,  I  cannot  sing;  I 
have  lost  it.'  I  tried  to  console  him,  but  it  seemed  as  if  he  could  not 
hear  what  I  was  saying.  He  had  been  to  one  of  the  villas  where 
the  people  had  always  praised  him,  and  they  had  not  opened  the 
window,  or   sent   him   money.      And   as   he   had   been   going  away 


GIOVANNI  AND    THE  OTHER  43 

wondering-  and  heavy-hearted,  a  servant  had  seen  him,  and  said, 
'  Was  it  you  singing  ?  No  one  knew  it  was  you.  They  thought 
it  was  a  stranger.  It  did  not  sound  like  your  voice.  What  is 
wronor? ' 

"After  that  it  seemed  as  if  he  grew  desperate.  In  spite  of  his 
hoarseness  he  would  try  to  sing  alone.  He  would  shut  himself  up, 
and  exercise  his  voice.  He  said  that  if  he  worked  steadily  it  might 
come  back.  He  began  to  cough,  and  became  thin,  and  he  could  not 
sleep  at  night,  but  he  could  not  give  up. 

"Once,  when  he  was  exercising,  I  heard  suddenly  that  he  had 
stopped,  and  I  went  quietly  and  stole  a  glance  at  him  through  the 
door.  He  was  lying  upon  the  floor  weeping  with  heavy  sobs.  I 
dared  not  speak  to  him.  He  was  my  son,  and  he  loved  me,  but 
there  were  times  when  I  felt  he  was  far  beyond  me  in  some  strange 
way,  and  I  was  only  a  peasant  woman.  But  he  loved  me,  he  loved 
me.  My  heart  was  so  warm  to  him,  and  so  faithful.  Sc?isi,  Signora, 
I  am  telling  you  a  long  story." 

"Tell  it  to  me,  tell  it,"  said  the  lady  in  black  ;  "  it  will  ease  your 
heart  to  speak.  Sometimes  one  wishes  to  be  quite  silent,  one  can- 
not speak  at  all,  but  sometimes  one  must  go  over  it  all  again,  one 
cannot  help  it.      Tell  it  all  to  me." 

"  Yes,  it  is  so,"  said  the  peasant  woman  ;  "  but  there  are  so  few 
one  can  speak  to." 

"We  have  both  felt  the  same  suffering,"  said  the  lady  in  black. 

"To  be  a  mother  who  loves  must  be  the  same  always,"  said 
Lisa.  "I  have  knelt  before  the  Madonna  in  the  church  there,  feel- 
ing that  she  must  understand.  She  was  like  us  after  all.  She  had 
held  her  Son  in  her  arms,  and  she  stood  by  and  saw  him  die,  and 
could  not  help  him."     And  she  made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

"I  used  to  ask  myself  if  she  looked  on,"  she  went  on — "  if  she 
looked  down  at  the  Citta  Vecchia  in  those  months  that  came  after. 


44  GIOVANNI  AND    THE  OTHER 

Surely  the  Calvary  was  not  more  terrible.  They  were  so  long,  so 
long." 

"And  so  short,"  the  other  mother  said,  in  a  voice  like  aery. 
And  she  caught  the  peasant  woman's  hand.  "  I  know  it  all,  they 
were  so  long,  and  so  short." 

"  Yes.     Yes.      Did  yours  die  so  ?  " 

it  \T  » 

"  Yes. 

"  Mine  wasted  and  coughed,  and  his  eyes  grew  large  and  hollow, 
and  his  hair  was  damp,  and  he  was  weaker  every  day  ;  but  always 
he  would  try,  with  his  poor  voice,  to  sing,  and  always  it  grew 
hoarser  and  feebler,  and  more  cracked — his  s^old  and  silver  voice. 
And  when  he  heard  it  he  would  let  his  damp  forehead  fall  on  his 
hand,  and  large  tears  would  roll  down  his  cheeks.  He  ceased  early 
to  try  and  sing  before  the  villas  and  hotels  in  the  daylight.  He 
used  to  steal  out  at  night  and  try  in  the  darkness.  He  did  not  wish 
to  be  seen  ;  but  no  one  gave  him  anything ;  they  had  all  forgotten 
him,  and  once  a  concierge  came  out  to  tell  him  he  must  go  away, 
that  he  disturbed  the  guests.  In  that  hotel  they  had  once  made 
him  their  favorite.  It  does  not  take  long  for  the  happy  rich  ones  to 
quite  forget.  It  was  terrible  to  him  to  find  out  that  he  had  been 
so  quickly  forgotten.  That  night,  after  the  concierge  came  out  to 
tell  him  to  go  away,  he  did  not  sleep  at  all.  His  pillow  was  wet  in 
the  morning,  and  it  was  not  only  with  the  dampness  of  his  hair,  but 
with  tears.  His  eyes  had  great  shadows  under  them,  and  he  was 
exhausted.  Some  nights  he  used  to  wander  about  until  it  was  long 
past  midnight.  Those  who  did  not  know  him  said  he  had  got  into 
a  bad  way,  and  was  a  vagabond.      But  I  knew  that  it  was  not  so. 

"One  nig-ht — it  was  the  last  time  he  tried  to  sinsf  at  all — he 
came  in  with  something  in  his  hand,  and  sat  and  stared  at  it. 
Mother  of  God  !  he  looked  like  a  ghost — a  lost  spirit — a  condemned 
soul ! 


GIOVANNI  AND    THE  OTHER  45 

"  'There  are  some  people  at  the  Grand  Hotel  des  Anglais,'  he 
said  ;  '  they  are  forestieri,  two  Signore.  Once  or  twice  they  have 
thrown  out  money  to  me.  They  are  generous.  I  suppose  they  are 
rich.  I  know  why  they  throw  it  to  me,  it  is  because  they  pity  me 
— they  pity  me.  They  hear  how  bad  it  is,  how  broken  and  hideous. 
They  know  I  have  lost  it,  and  they  are  sorry.  To-night  they  threw 
me  this  from  their  balcony.'  And  he  held  out  his  wasted,  trembling 
hand  with  a  piece  of  silver  in  it.  '  Once  they  would  have  given  it 
from  pleasure.  That  is  over.  It  is  gone !  I  shall  never  sing 
again  ! ' 

"  He  kept  the  piece  of  silver,  because  he  said  it  reminded  him  of 
the  time  when  such  things  fell  to  him  from  so  many  balconies  and 
windows,  and  this  was  the  last  he  should  ever  have." 

She  sobbed  a  little,  and  rubbed  her  eyes  with  the  end  of  her 
handkerchief. 

"  After  that  he  only  lay  in  his  bed.  He  coughed  and  burned 
with  fever,  but  I  would  not  believe  that  it  was  all  over.  He  had 
been  such  a  beauty,  and  had  sung  so  well  a  year  before,  and  he  was 
so  young — only  a  boy — Mother  of  God  !  only  fifteen  years  old  ! 

"  One  night — it  is  not  a  month  ago — he  slept  restlessly  and  at 
last  he  began  to  sing  in  a  weak,  harsh  voice,  panting  and  broken  ; 
it  was  Addio  bella  Napoli  he  began,  but  the  strange  broken  sound 
wakened  him.  He  started  and  stared  at  me  as  if  it  were  I  wmose 
voice  he  had  heard. 

"'Who  sang?'  he  whispered;  'who  sang?'  But  a  moment 
later  he  lifted  his  head  from  the  pillow  a  little,  as  if  he  were  listen- 
ing. It  was  very  strange  ;  he  was  as  white  as  snow,  but  he  faintly 
smiled.  His  eyes  did  not  see  me,  he — he  was  listening  to  some- 
thing I  could  not  hear  ! ' 

"  'Ah  !  that  is  better.'  he  said  softly,  and  while  he  seemed  to 
listen   a  breath  of  something  seemed  to   pass  across  his  face,   and 


46  GIOVANNI  AND    THE   OTHER 

make  it  quite  still,  even  the  smile,  and  his  parted  lips  and  open 
eyes. 

"  I  held  my  own  breath  for  a  second.  And  then  his  head  sank 
on  the  pillow,  and  his  eyes  closed." 

Is  there  anyone  who  can  say  it  was  a  strange  thing  that  the  gloved 
hand  and  the  bare  rough  one  caught  and  clung  to  each  other,  and 
that  two  women  sobbed  as  they  leaned  upon  the  Citta  Vecchia's 
old  gray  wall,  and  felt  their  hearts  beat  against  its  stoniness ! 


VII. 

Many  things  happen  during  ten  years,  and  yet  at  the  end  of 
them  it  seems  as  though  somehow  after  all  the  time  had 
flown  very  quickly  !  Young  things  have  grown  to  man- 
hood, fortunes  and  reputations  have  been  made,  so  many  structures 
have  been  built  up  stone  by  stone,  or  have  fallen  into  dust  and  been 
forgotten.  People  have  grown  happy  or  sad,  good  or  bad  ;  lives 
have  begun,  and  lives  have  ended.  And  yet  one  says,  with  sudden 
wonder,  "  Can  it  be  ten  years  since  then — really  ten  years?  " 

During  the  ten  years  after  the  two  mothers  stood  by  the  wall  on 
the  steep  of  the  Citta  Vecchia,  many  things  had  come  to  pass  in  the 
queer  old  town  which  had  always  seemed  to  be  crumbling. 

The  mother  who  was  one  of  \\\<t  forest ieri  had  been  Lisa's  friend 
before  she  had  gone  away  herself.  The  two  had  understood  each 
other.  Lisa  had  been  enabled  to  live  and  work  quietly  in  her  old 
house  without  fear  of  suffering  from  poverty.  She  had  not  wanted 
much,  and  she  had  a  friend  who  would  not  desert  her,  though  she 
was  far  away.  Over  the  mound  where  her  boy  lay,  there  was  a 
slender  white  cross,  and  upon  the  mound  many  a  flower  grew.  On 
the  cross  the  peasant  woman  used  to  hang  garlands.  On  the  coast 
of  the  Mediterranean  one  may  afford  flowers. 

There  were  thing's  the  stranger  mother  had  said  in  their  talks 
together,  which  Lisa  had  taken  to  her  heart  and  always  remem- 
bered. They  were  things  of  which  she  did  not  speak  much  to 
others,  but  her  thoughts  dwelt  on  them  with  strange  comfort  when 


48  GIOVANNI  AND    THE  OTHER 

her  day's  work  was  over,  and  she  used  to  go  and  lean  upon  the  low 
wall  and  look  towards  the  hill  where  the  Madonna  della  Guardia 
watched  over  the  sapphire  sea. 

"  In  Paradise,"  she  used  to  whisper  to  herself.  "They  say  that 
even  those  who  have  not  sung"  on  earth  have  voices  given  to  them. 
What  joy  he  would  feel  when  it  all  came  back  to  him  more  golden 
and  clear  than  ever  !  How  the  saints  would  listen  to  him — and  the 
Madonna  herself.  Surely  she  would  smile  and  keep  him  near  her, 
because  he  had  suffered  so  on  earth  !  And  the  signorino — who 
was  a  boy  too,  and  had  so  many  boy  friends  on  earth — perhaps — 
they  surely  must  have  known  each  other  because  their  mothers  have 
wept  together.     But  he  would  sing  again— he  would  sing  again  !  " 

As  the  years  went  by  there  were  many  interesting  stories  of 
Giovanni.  It  was  told  in  the  Citta  Vecchia  that  his  voice  had 
become  a  wonder,  and  that  he  was  becoming  famous  among  the 
masters  who  trained  voices,  and  great  things  were  prophesied  of 
him.  He  was  strong  and  well  grown  and  handsome  as  a  picture, 
it  was  said.  He  had  sent  a  photograph  of  himself  to  Brigita  and 
Cola,  and  they  were  by  no  means  averse  to  showing  it  to  their 
acquaintances  and  repeating  what  had  been  said  by  the  people  who 
knew  what  voices  were. 

And  then  came  the  time  when  he  sang  for  the  first  time  in  an 
opera.  To  the  Citta  Vecchia  it  seemed  like  a  fairy  story.  He  had 
sung  in  a  great  theatre  filled  with  grand  people  and  lights  and 
jewels — little  Giovanni  who  had  sung  in  the  streets,  and  been  more 
than  proud  to  bring  home  a  few  francs.  There  had  been  wonder- 
ful scenery  on  the  stage — places  as  fine  as  the  king's  palace,  and 
Giovanni  had  moved  about  acting  and  singing  as  if  he  had  been 
used  to  such  things  always.  And  the  people  had  been  wild  with 
joy,  and  had  applauded  and  risen  in  their  seats  and  thrown  flowers 
at  his  feet,  and  called  aloud  his  name. 


GIOVANNI  AND   THE   OTHER  49 


And  from  that  time  his  life  was  more  like  a  fairy  story  every  day. 
It  was  the  great  excitement  of  the  Citta  Vecchia,  and  Brigita  and 
Cola  were  a  hero  and  heroine.  They  need  not  work  at  all,  they 
were  quite  rich,  at  least  Giovanni,  who  was  a  good  fellow  after  all, 
in  the  midst  of  his  grandeur,  sent  them  plenty  of  money  for  all 
their  simple  wants.  It  was  delightful  to  go  and  sit  with  them  just 
to  hear  their  stories  and  discover  how  grand  the  world  was. 
Brigita  and  Cola  always  had  plenty  of  visitors  after  Giovanni's 
career  began. 

And  one  evening  those  who  dropped  in  to  chat  and  drink  a  little 
wine  comfortably  found  them  wearing  an  air  at  once  reverential  and 
triumphant.  They  had  just  had  a  new  letter  from  Giovanni,  who 
was  in  Rome, 

"  To-nieht,"  Brioqta  announced  almost  breathlesslv — "this  very 
night  he  is  to  sing  before  the  queen  and  the  king  !  They  have  asked 
it — and  all  the  Court  will  be  there  to  hear." 

It  was  true  that  on  this  night  his  audience  was  a  very  magnifi- 
cent one  ;  and  that  the  Royal  box  was  filled.  The  queen  and  king 
had  come  to  hear  this  wonderful  new  young  singer,  who  had  risen 
like  a  star,  and  who  had  once  been  only  a  little  street-singing 
peasant. 

And  because  the  queen  and  king  had  come  the  Court  had  fol- 
lowed, and  the  house  was  a  splendid  spectacle.  There  were  beau- 
tiful women  and  rich  dresses,  glittering  jewels  and  flowers  and  soft 
colors  and  perfumes  everywhere.  And  everyone  was  talking  of  the 
marvellous  young  tenor  and  the  great  fame  which  had  come  to  him, 
and  the  great  fortune  which  his  future  held. 

In  one  of  the  boxes  were  a  lady  and  a  young  man  who  were 
evidently  not  Romans,  but  their  interest  seemed  almost  greater 
than  that  of  the  rest  of  the  audience.  It  seemed  an  interest  a  little 
4 


50  GIOVANNI  AND    THE   OTHER 

different  from  the  universal  one.  They  were  mother  and  son.  The 
mother  wore  soft,  black  draperies,  and  her  blonde  hair  was  powdered 
with  silver  threads.  The  son  was  a  graceful,  happy-eyed  young 
fellow,  with  a  bright  face  and  laughing  eyes.  He  leaned  forward 
with  a  boyish  smile  of  pleasure. 

"  What  a  house  !  "  he  said.  "  What  a  splendid  house  !  I  am  so 
glad  !  How  lovely  the  queen  looks  to-night !  The  king  seems  in 
a  cheerful  mood,  too.  They  are  sure  to  be  pleased  ;  of  course  they 
must  be!  Everything  goes  well  for  him.  What  a  change  for  a  lit- 
tle peasant!  I  wish  I  had  seen  him  when  he  sang  under  your  win- 
dow, and  thought  the  francs  you  threw  him  were  a  fortune  !  It  was 
just  after — " 

He  stopped  and  put  out  his  warm  young  hand  and  touched  his 
mother's. 

"  You  were  very  sad  then,  dear,"  he  said.  "  But  out  of  that  all 
Giovanni's  good  fortune  has  come.  How  strange  it  is!  If  you  had 
not  gone  there,  he  might  have  sung  in  the  streets  until  he  had  spoiled 
his  voice.  Then  he  would  have  had  to  live  the  life  of  a  common 
peasant.  If  you  had  not  made  his  first  step  for  him,  he  might  never 
have  been  able  to  make  the  others." 

His  mother  sat  a  little  in  the  shadow  of  the  curtain  and 
looked  at  the  brilliantly  lighted  stage.  She  smiled  a  soft,  vague 
smile. 

"  I  wonder  if  he  ever  remembers  that  it  was  not  really  I  who  did 
it,  but  a  boy  like  himself  whom  he  never  saw.  It  was  Leo  who  was 
his  friend." 

It  was  a  splendid,  wondrous  night  for  the  young  tenor.  What- 
soever the  triumphs  that  his  life  might  bring  him  in  the  future,  there 
would  never  be  one  which  seemed  quite  so  joyous  and  magnificent 
as  this  hour,  when  young  and  full  of  exultant  spirit  he  poured  forth 
his  song  before  the  brilliant  house,  while   the  king   and   queen   ap- 


IN    ONE    OF    THE   BOXES. 


GIOVANNI  AND   THE  OTHER  So 


plauded  him  with  delight — the  king  and  queen  in  the  marvellous 
storied  capital  of  his  own  country. 

He  was  a  beautiful  young  fellow  of  a  dark-eyed  simple  stal- 
wart type.  He  had  evidently  lived  joyously  and  without  pain  or 
despondency.  There  were  no  shadows  of  past  young  suffering  in  his 
well-outlined  happy  face.  His  temperament  had  saved  him  all  that. 
His  black  hair  curled  crisp  and  close  over  an  unmarked  forehead, 
his  brown  eyes  had  the  golden  clearness  one  sees  in  the  eyes  of 
some  fine  young  animal,  he  had  a  glowing  olive  skin,  and  a  body 
which  was  full  of  grace  and  strength.  When  he  opened  his  fresh 
red  lips  the  notes  that  poured  forth  were  golden  sweet. 

Those  who  listened  found  it  a  pleasure  merely  to  look  at  his 
joyous  youth  and  beauty.  As  the  scenes  of  the  opera  succeeded 
each  other,  their  enthusiasm  grew.  The  queen  leaned  forward 
smiling,  the  applause  grew  deafening.  They  called  him  out  again 
and  again,  and  yet  again,  and  he  came  palpitating  and  bowing,  and 
smiling  with  joy.  At  the  end  of  the  last  act  the  house  was 
throbbing  with  delight.  Flowers  rained  upon  him,  and  were  so 
heaped  about  his  feet  that  he  could  not  remove  them  unaided. 

The  lady  in  black  had  been  holding  on  her  knee  a  large  bunch 
of  deep  purple  violets.  She  bent  forward  and  threw  them  to  him 
herself.  He  saw  her,  and,  raising  them  from  the  showers  of  more 
brilliant  color,  bowed  low  with  a  radiant  look. 

As  they  rose  to  leave  their  box,  the  young  fellow  with  the 
bright  face  was  filled  with  exultant  excitement. 

"  How  perfect  it  all  has  been  !  "  he  said  as  he  folded  his 
mother's  wrap  about  her.  "  How  perfect !  He  could  not  have 
had  a  greater  triumph.  How  happy  he  must  be  !  How  glorious 
it  is  to  think  of  it !  He  must  feel  that  earth  can  scarcely  hold 
more." 


54  GIOVANNI  AND    THE  OTHER 

He  stopped  a  moment  and  looked  down  at  his  mother's  face. 
Her  eyes  were  wet,  but  they  were  filled  with  a  shining  smile  which 
was  strangely  happy. 

He  took  her  hand  and  drew  it  through  his  arm,  pressing  it 
lovingly  against  his  side. 

"  You  are  thinking  of  something,  dear,"  he  said  ;  "  what  is  it  ?  " 

She  met  his  young  eyes,  her  own  glowing  even  more  radiantly. 

"  Why,"  she  said,  "  we  understand  each  other's  thoughts  so  well 
that  it  will  not  seem  strangely  fanciful  to  you.  I  am  thinking  of 
'  the  Other.'  You  know  how  sad  it  was,  that  story  of  his.  And  just 
now  as  I  saw  all  the  flowers  and  the  jewel-like  lights,  and  heard 
the  roar  of  applause,  and  glanced  at  the  king,  I  thought  all  at  once 
of  '  the  Other.'  Giovanni  has  gained  all  the  earth  can  give,  but 
'  the  Other '  has  been  all  these  years  in  the  golden  city  with  the 
open  gates  of  pearl !  Who  knows,  who  can  know  what  his  life  has 
been  ?  He  has  sung  too,  and  the  King  has  heard  him.  Perhaps 
there  was  stillness  through  the  great  fair  wondrous  spaces  while 
all  listened.  Of  the  two — Giovanni  and  'the  Other' — which  of 
them  to-night,  which  of  them —  ?  "  And  her  voice  fell  into  soft 
silence. 

And  we  who  know  only  the  life  of  earth  with  all  its  incomplete- 
ness and  longings  unfulfilled,  whisper  with  bated  breath,  "  Which 
of  them  ?     Ah  !  which — Giovanni,  or  '  the  Other  '  ?  " 


"ILLUSTRISSIMO   SIGNOR    BEBE" 


To  begin  with,  I  never  saw  him.  At  least  I  never  saw  anything 
of  him  but  some  photographs.  And  yet  in  all  my  gallery  of 
children  who  have  made  stories,  there  is  no  little  figure 
more  distinct  to  me  or  more  full  of  intense  juvenile  character  than 
that  of  Illustrissimo  Signor  Bebe.  I  called  him  this  because  he  was 
such  an  all-powerful  and  distinguished  little  person,  and  because, 
being  an  Italian,  if  he  had  been  grown-up,  instead  of  five 
years  old,  his  letters  would  have  been  addressed,  according  to 
polite  custom,  Illustrissimo  Signor,  etc.  His  real  name  was  Luigi 
Roberto,  but  no  one  ever  called  him  so.  He  was  always  addressed 
and  spoken  of  as  Bebe,  and  so,  after  hearing  innumerable  delightful 
stories  of  him  in  which  he  always  figured  as  the  most  magnificent 
autocrat  and  invariably  managed  to  have  his  own  way,  I  fell  into 
the  habit  of  speaking  of  him  as   "  Illustrissimo  Signor  Bebe." 

There  is  a  little  room  in  my  house  in  London  which  has  flowery 
walls  and  hangings,  lounging  chairs,  and  fanciful  light  bits  of  furni- 
ture. One  of  these  bits  of  furniture  is  a  fantastic  little  double- 
shelved  table,  with  a  chair,  equally  light  and  fantastic,  attached,  f 
do  not  know  why  the  chair  is  part  of  the  table,  as  it  is  placed  side- 
ways and  nobody  could  sit  in  it  and  write  on  the  table,  and,  in  fact, 
the  table  is  not  made  to  write  on  at  all.      It  is  too  liofht  and  smaii. 


56  "  ILLUSTRISSIMO   SIGN  OR   BEBE" 

It  is  made  only  to  hold  books  or  trifling  ornaments,  and  this  table 
is  dedicated  to  Illustrissimo  Signor  Bebe. 

In  the  first  place  there  is  a  photograph  upon  a  small  easel.  It  is 
the  picture  of  a  most  beautiful  little  boy  of  about  four  years  old, 
and  he  seems  to  be  far  from  pleased  with  the  circumstances  with 
which  he  finds  himself  surrounded.  In  fact  he  looks  distinctly 
pouting,  but  as  charming  as  a  disgusted  and  too-much-photo- 
graphed baby  can  be. 

The  truth  was,  I  believe,  that  being  an  infant  professional 
beauty  he  had  been  photographed  to  the  verge  of  distraction  and 
the  limit  of  endurance,  and  finally  had  clutched  his  big  sailor  hat, 
clasped  his  arms  over  the  back  of  the  chair,  and  rested  his  curl-laden 
head  upon  them,  looking  out  under  his  eye-lashes  and  pouting  at 
all  the  world — his  mamma,  the  photographer  whom  he  regarded  as 
a  troublesome  idiot,  the  little  bird  who  would  not  fly  out  of  the 
camera  when  he  waited  for  him,  and  his  mamma's  friend  and  his 
own  adorer  and  slave,  the  young  lady  who  had  used  all  sorts  of 
devices  to  make  him  sit  up  and  look  good-tempered. 

He  did  not  feel  good-tempered,  he  was  an  injured  and  bored 
person,  and  he  did  not  intend  to  look  as  if  he  was  pleased  when  he 
was  really  bored  to  death  with  the  imbecilities  of  these  people. 
So  he  put  his  head  on  his  arm  and  dangled  his  legs,  and  the  pho- 
tographer hurriedly  took  the  prettiest  picture  Illustrissimo  Signor 
Bebe  had  ever  had.  Nothing  could  have  been  prettier — the  tum- 
bling mass  of  long  curls  falling  over  his  shoulder  and  shading 
his  round  cheek,  his  rebellious  little  face,  his  plump  mutinous  legs, 
which  looked  as  if  they  were  ready  to  kick,  his  protesting  dark 
eyes,  and  the  indignant  pose  of  the  arms,  and  the  sailor  hat  scorn- 
fully held,  made  not  only  a  photograph,  but  a  picture  which  told  its 
own  story. 

I  should  have  quite  adored  it,  even  if  I  had  not  heard  all   these 


ILLUSTRISSIMO   SIGNOR   B£/?£"  57 


stories  about  Illustrissimo  Signor  Bebe  and  kept  pace  with  his 
record,  as  it  were,  during  a  whole  Florentine  winter,  but  knowing" 
his  little  peculiarities  I  delighted  in  it  and  laughed  almost  every 
time  I  saw  it. 

The  decoration  which  stands  near  it  is  in  its  own  way  equally 
interesting  and  characteristic.  It  is  a  letter  boldly  framed,  and 
which  has  an  easel  also.  It  is  not  a  very  long  letter  nor  a  very  big 
one,  but  the  handwriting  is  not  in  the  least  cramped.  It  has  been 
allowed  plenty  of  space  and  fills  superbly  a  page  and  a  half.  If 
one  were  inclined  to  criticise,  one  might  say  that  it  was  large  and 
sprawling,  and  that  the  lines  had  a  tendency  to  emulate  the 
example  of  the  illustrious  writer  and  go  where  they  pleased. 
But  who  would  have  the  audacity  and  bad  taste  to  criticise  the 
very  first  literary  effort  of  Illustrissimo  Signor  Bebe  ?  At  the  same 
time  it  seems  a  pity  that  it  should  be  copied  in  mere  common 
every-day  printing  instead  of  in  the  fearless  and  voluminous 
calligraphy  of  the  author. 

"  Cara  Luisa,"  it  reads, 

"  Ti  voglio  bene  e  scrive  meglio  che  posso — Torna  presto  e  ti  mando  un  bacio 
affezionatissimo. 

"  Luici  Roberto." 

In  Encrlish  it  would  be: — 

o 

"  Dear   Louise, 

"  I  wish  thee  very  well  " — (an  Italian  phrase  which  really  signifies  "  I  love 
you  "  in  the  sense  that  friends  and  parents  and  children  say  it  to  each  other) — 
"  and  I  write  as  well  as  I  possibly  can.  Come  back  soon,  and  I  send  thee  a  very 
affectionate  kiss. 

"  Louis  Robert." 

It  was  the  very  first  letter  of  his  life,  written  after  the  wonderful 
events  of  his  first  months  at  school  where,  after  infinite  diplomacy, 


58  "  ILLUSTRISSIMO   SIGNOR  b£b£" 

he  had  finally  been  induced  to  permit  himself  to  be  escorted,  with 
the  full  understanding  that  it  was  the  beginning  of  his  preparation 
for  entering  the  Italian  army,  of  which  he  had  early  announced  his 
intention  of  becoming  a  general. 

It  had  been  composed  by  himself  with  many  intellectual  throes, 
and  had  been  forwarded  promptly  to  the  young  lady  who  had  been 
the  friend  of  his  uneducated  infancy,  and  who  had  delightedly  told 
me  the  stories  which  had  made  him  so  distinct  and  amusing  a  little 
personage  to  me. 

As  he  was  only  four  years  old  when  I  first  knew  of  him,  and  he 
was  already  quite  a  veteran,  it  may  be  argued  that  he  had  chosen 
his  career  of  arms  comparatively  early  in  life. 

I  never  knew  exactly  when  he  became  a  warrior  or  when  he 
began  to  demand  uniforms  and  carry  swords  and  guns,  and  object 
eloquently  and  with  fire  to  the  wearing  of  long  curls  and  petticoats, 
as  unbecoming  an  officer  and  a  gentleman,  but  nearly  all  the  anec- 
dotes I  heard  of  him  had  for  their  point  some  such  protest  or 
demand  as  these. 

His  surroundings  were  not  ordinary  ones.  He  was  born  to  the 
infant  purple  as  it  were.  Emperors  are  supposed  to  issue  mandates, 
czars  are  considered  autocratic,  kings  and  princes  are  regarded  as 
having  power,  but  for  an  omnipotent,  uncombatable  potentate,  com- 
mend me  to  a  beautiful,  relative-worshipped  baby  who  understands 
his  privileges,  and  is  not  averse  to  using  them. 

Illustrissimo  Signor  Bebe  was  not  in  the  least  averse,  and  had 
fully  appreciated  his  position  from  the  first. 

In  the  first  place  he  was  a  marvellous  beauty,  in  the  second  he  had 
a  will  of  iron  braced  with  steel,  in  the  third  he  had  a  beautiful  and 
brilliant  mother  who  adored  him,  and  a  father  who  adored  herr  and 
in  the  fourth  he  had  taken  prompt  and  decided  possession  of  his 
entire  family  and  their  resources  from  his  first  hour. 


••  ILLUSTRISSIMO   SIGNOR   BEBE"  59 

He  had  two  brothers  who  were  unusually  fine  and  clever,  but 
Signor  Bebe  considered  them  merely  as  adjuncts  which  at  times 
might  be  made  useful.  They  were  comparatively  grown-up,  and 
they  had  merely  the  accomplishments  which  could  gain  them 
admiration  and  prizes  at  school.  They  had  short  hair  and  wore 
ordinary  clothes,  and  when  they  spoke  only  commanded  ordinary 
attention.  They  were  not  attired  in  billows  of  lace  under  mantles 
of  crimson  plush  ;  passers-by  did  not  exclaim  at  the  mere  sight  of 
their  beauty  ;  the  moment  they  deigned  to  express  an  opinion  or 
make  a  little  dramatic  gesture  they  did  not  find  themselves  at- 
tended by  an  enraptured  and  ecstatic  audience. 

"  II  est  a  croquer,  cet  enfant,"  people  exclaimed.  "Joli  comme 
un  petit  Amour  avec  ses  longues  boucles  blondes  et  ses  grands  yeux 
noirs."  (He  is  pretty  enough  to  eat,  that  child,  or  to  crunch 
between  one's  teeth  like  a  bon-bon  (to  translate  more  exactly).  He 
is  as  pretty  as  a  little  Love,  with  his  long  blonde  curls  and  his  big 
black  eyes.) 

Signor  Bebe  heard  a  great  deal  of  French  spoken,  and  spoke  a 
little  himself,  but  it  must  be  confessed  a  very  little.  But  this  fact 
did  not  prejudice  him  when  he  desired  to  be  sufficiently  sweep- 
ing in  his  remarks  to  his  poor,  long-suffering,  much-trampled-on 
German  nurse. 

"I  speak  only  Italian,  French  and  English,"  he  said.  "No 
German.  I  hate  German.  It  is  ugly  and  stupid.  The  Germans," 
with  a  scathing  glance  at  poor  Margarethe,  "are  all  stupid  and 
ugly  too."  Margarethe  knew  nothing  but  German,  and  did  not  in 
the  least  understand  Italian.  It  was  said  to  be  rather  a  touching 
spectacle  to  see  her  calmly  beaming  and  delighted  countenance 
when  the  Illustrissimo  "chivied  "  her  in  his  melliflous  Tuscan,  call- 
ing her  "  Bruta,  Imbecile,  Stupida,  Tedescacia,"  while  she  broadly 
smiled,    imagining  confidingly,  it   was   said,   that   he  was   lavishing 


60  "  ILLUSTRISSIMO  SIGNOR   BE  BE" 

endearments  upon  her.  She  was  a  good,  stupid  soul,  and  was  always 
ready  to  be  his  slave.  It  was  she  who  dressed  him  laboriously, 
inserting  one  kicking,  dancing  foot  into  his  sock,  and  then  heavily 
and  seriously  giving  chase  all  over  the  house,  while  he  ran  from  one 
room  to  another,  until  she  caught  him  and  bore  him  back  to  his 
bedroom  to  put  on  the  other.  She  ran  miles  during  the  performance 
of  his  toilet,  and  in  warm  weather  ended  it  mopping  her  brows  and 
exhausted,  but  still  mildly  beaming.  It  was  she  who  was  called 
upon  to  be  the  horse,  and  be  enthusiastically  and  realistically  beaten 
by  the  Illustrissimo,  when  he  placed  the  chairs  in  a  row  to  make  a 
coach,  and  played  coachman  himself.  It  was  she  who  must  be 
drilled,  and  marched  with  an  umbrella  or  poker  over  her  shoulder, 
while  the  illustrious  General  Bebe  rated  her  vigorously  for  the  lack 
of  promptness  and  soldierly  grace  in  manoeuvres. 

It  never  occurred  to  the  Illustrissimo  that  the  whole  world  and 
the  fulness  thereof  were  not  created  solely  that  he  might  dispose  of 
them  for  his  own  amusement.  I  do  not  think  he  ever  asked  for 
anything.  Everything  was  given  to  him  before  he  had  time  to  ask. 
Apparently  people  sat  up  at  night  to  invent  things  to  give  him. 
Superb  playthings  were  lavished  on  him  on  every  side.  Wonderful 
uniforms,  swords  and  guns  and  lances  were  made  for  him  and  sent 
by  doting  god-parents  and  insatiate  adorers  in  various  cities.  He 
was  an  officer  of  infantry,  of  cavalry,  of  engineers  ;  he  was  a  bersa- 
gliere  with  broad,  low  hat  and  floating  plumes  ;  he  was  a  cuiras- 
sier, an  uhlan,  and,  I  believe,  even  a  Papal  Guard ;  everything  mili- 
tary and  bloodthirsty,  and  brilliant  in  accoutrements  was  Illustris- 
simo Signor  Bebe.  When  a  military  idea  occurred  to  him  he 
simply  ordered  his  nearest  relatives  to  assist  him  to  carry  it  out. 

"To-day  I  saw  an  officer's  funeral,"  he  would  perhaps  announce 
in  the  middle  of  dinner.  "There  were  soldiers  marching  and  there 
were  drums.     They  went  like  this,  '  Buom,  buom,  buom,'"  thumping 


" ILLUSTRISSIMO   SIGNOR   £JiB£"  61 

solemnly  on  the  table  with  the  largest  spoon  he  could  appropriate. 
"  There  were  flaos  and  sains.  The  soldiers  marched  like  this," 
scrambling  down  from  his  chair  to  illustrate  with  funereal  dramatic 
action.  "Papa — Godfredo — Oscarino —  come  and  march.  And  we 
will  have  an  officer's  funeral.  Papa,  carry  the  fire-screen  for  a 
funeral  banner,  Godfredo  carry  the  poker,  and  Oscarino  the  tongs. 
I  will  be  the  music — buom,  buom,  buom,  that's  the  drum — tra  lira 
la,  that's  the  other  musics." 

And  it  was  absolutely  necessary  that  he  should  be  followed  sol- 
emnly round  the  table  in  funeral  pomp,  while  the  soup  got  cold. 

"  At  least,  show  respect,"  he  would  say  furiously  to  the  brother 
who  dared  to  giggle;  "it  is  a  generale."  I  do  not  know  what 
would  have  happened  if  his  family  had  refused  to  form  the  proces- 
sion, and  had  firmly  continued  eating  their  soup.  I  used  to  feel 
curious  to  know.  But  I  never  heard  of  such  iconoclastic  steps 
beino-  taken. 

But  notwithstanding  the  processions,  the  uniforms  and  weapons, 
he  felt  there  were  serious  obstacles  in  the  way  of  his  military 
career. 

"Soldiers,"  he  said,  "do  not  wear  long  curls  and  petticoats.  I 
have  ncvcir  seen  one.  What  would  they  do  on  the  field  of  battle  ! 
You"  sternly  to  his  mamma,  "  have  never  seen  a  general  in  a  frock 
and  sash  and  with  curls." 

"Well — no,"  his  mamma  was  obliged  to  admit  reluctantly. 

"The  generale  who  rides  by  with  the  soldiers  in  the  morning 
has  no  curls,"  he  elaborated,  "  and  he  does  not  wear  petticoats,  I  have 
noticed." 

"But  perhaps  he  did  when  he  was  your  age,"  said  his  mother. 

"I  do  not  believe  it.  I  shall  salute  him  and  ask  him  the  next 
time  I  see  him  on  the  Lung  Arno."  And  he  walked  up  and  down 
the  salon  gesticulating  dramatically. 


62  «  ILLUSTRISSIMO   SIGNOR   BEBE" 

"  Belli  soldati,  che  portano  le  sottane  e  i  riccioli."  (Pretty  sol- 
diers, who  wear  petticoats  and  curls.)  "  Ma  si,  signore,  quando 
vedro  il  generale — glielo  voglio  proprio  domandare."  (Yes,  sirs, 
when"  I  see  the  general  I  will  indeed  ask  him.) 

I  should  have  been  very  much  charmed  to  have  had  the  privilege 
of  being  present  during  the  interview,  when  the  "  generale  "  was 
put  to  the  question.  But  I  was  not  present  on  that  interesting 
occasion,  and  I  have  only  had  the  pleasure  of  imagining  it. 

I  can  see  the  Lungarno  Nuova,  almost  dazzling  white  in  the 
brilliant  Italian  sun  and  under  the  pure  brightness  of  the  blue  sky. 
I  can  see  the  familiar,  gaily  costumed  figures  of  the  peasant 
women  who  stand  always  in  the  same  place  with  their  pile  of  queer, 
home-made  stuffs  and  embroideries  in  purple  and  red  and  yellow 
and  green.  I  can  see  the  few  morning  promenaders,  mostly 
"  forestieri,"  and  children  and  nurses  taking  their  slow  walk  by 
the  low  wall  which  borders  the  bank  of  the  shallow,  unreliable 
river  Arno.  I  can  see  the  old  man  with  the  old  basket  piled  with 
violets  and  jonquils  and  daffodils  and  hyacinths,  or  deep  blue  and 
red  anemones  and  delicate,  shivering  sprays,  and  branches  of  yel- 
low mimosa.  I  can  hear  his  voice  as  he  chants  "  Belli  violi  ! 
Belli  violi !  Mammoli,  belli  mammoli."  And  as  I  listen  I  see 
Signor  Bebe  marching  valiantly  with  a  sword  in  his  sash  and  poor 
Margarethe  trying  to  keep  up  with  him,  because  it  is  never  the 
Illustrissimo  who  tries  to  keep  up  with  her. 

And  in  the  distance  there  approaches  a  tall  old  officer  with  a 
martial  tread  and  sword  and  spurs,  and  a  fine  grey  moustache,  and 
the  uniform  of  a  "  Generale  dei  Carabinieri." 

And  the  Illustrissimo  catches  sight  of  him  and  shrieks  aloud  with 
rapture. 

"The  generale,"  he  says;  "come  quick — come — run  fast  after 
me.      I  am  o-oino-  to  ask  him." 


*,:,",'    i /'"'i|'/i,  "i    ''//;'-        '    i       lil™l/Miliifi.ill'J-:  "■ -juJIIJJ'II    Inilniil.lwllll 


THE    LITTLE    FIGURE    DREW    UP    BEFORE    HIM    AND    BESTOWED    UPON    HIM    A    MOST    MILITARY    SALUTE. 


ILLUSTRISSIMO  SIGNOR   BEBPt  65 


He  flies,  and  his  bouclcs  blondes  stream  after  him  like  a  yel- 
low silk  banner;  his  shining  sword  dances,  and  the  generale  sees 
him  and  smiles,  as  people  always  do  when  they  see  Signor  Bebe. 

And  I  imagine  how  the  generale  looked  and  how  his  smile  grew 
as  the  little  figure  drew  up  before  him  and  bestowed  upon  him  a 
most  military  salute. 

"Generale,"  says  the  Illustrissimo  boldly,  "  I  told  my  mamma  I 
would  ask  you.      Do  you  ever  wear  petticoats  and  long  curls  ?  " 

"  Petticoats  !    curls  !   my  dear  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  officer. 

"I  knew  you  did  not;  I  have  told  my  mamma.  How  can  a 
soldier  wear  curls  and  petticoats  ?  How  could  he  fight  and  use  his 
sword  ?  I  am  a  soldier  !  I  am  going  to  be  a  generale  like  you. 
And  a  pretty  generale  I  should  be  with  curls  and  frocks  !  My 
mamma  must  take  them  off.      You  do  not  wear  them,  do  you  ?  " 

"No,"  said  the  generale,  bending  over  him  smiling;  "  I  do  not." 

"  Then  I  must  not.  No  generale  does.  You  never  wore  them, 
did  you  ?  " 

"  Well,"  admits  the  generale,  smiling  more  than  ever,  "  I  think 
perhaps  I  did,  when  I  was  as  young  as  you  !" 

"  I  am  six  !  "  cried  the  Illustrissimo  grandly. 

"Six/" 

"  When  you  are  sixteen,"  said  the  generale,  patting  the  small 
hand  he  had  taken,  and  nodding  his  head  consolingly,  "your  curls 
will  be  cut  off  and  you  will  not  wear  sottane.1' 

I  can  imagine  the  consternation  of  poor  Margarethe  when  she 
reached  the  field  of  action,  and  her  tremulous  "  Scusi,  scusi,  Signor 
Generale,"  as  she  dragged  her  gesticulating,  expostulating  charge 
away. 

It  was  after  we  had   left  Florence  that  the  great  decision  was 

o 

made  that  the  Illustrissimo  Signor  must  go  to  school.    It  must  have 
been   a  decision  arrived  at  with   no  small  misgqvinQfs  and   with   no 


66  « ILLUSTRISSIMO   SIGNOR   BEB&" 

trivial  discussion  in  family  conclave.  It  was  not  an  insignificant 
matter,  and  there  was  always  one  most  serious  point  to  be  con- 
sidered. His  papa  and  mamma,  his  grandmothers  and  godmothers 
might  decide  that  he  should  go.  But  what  if  his  decision  did  not 
accord  with  theirs  ?  What  if  Illustrissimo  Bebe  decided  that  he 
would  not?  I  can  imagine  how  carefully  the  subject  was  broached, 
how  diplomatically  it  was  dealt  with,  and  what  a  specious  military 
air  all  scholastic  training  was  given.  I  should  have  wished  to  have 
been  present  on  these  occasions  also,  but  this  too  was  a  joyful 
experience  denied  me.  I  only  heard  that  somehow  military  training 
skilfully  interwoven  with  the  alphabet  and  "  pot  hooks  and  hangers," 
and  never  beino-  allowed  to  disconnect  themselves  in  the  Illustris- 
simo's  mind,  finally  prevailed.  There  was  a  delightful  legend  that 
he  required  his  mamma  to  go  to  school  with  him,  and  that  this  very 
charming  and  vivacious  young  person  dutifully  accompanied  him 
daily  to  the  seat  of  learning,  and  learned  the  alphabet  also  ;  but 
this  seems  really  too  delicious  to  be  true,  so  I  have  always  preferred 
to  believe  it,  without  inquiring  into  it  too  closely. 

At  any  rate  I  know  that  at  this  time  the  despised  sottane  were 
finally  cast  aside  with  other  unmilitary  trivialities,  the  boucles  blondes 
were  cropped  off,  and,  armed  to  the  teeth,  Illustrissimo  Signor  Bebe 
went  to  school.  He  never  went  without  a  sword,  sometimes  he 
took  also  a  gun,  and  as  many  stilettos  as  could  be  stuck  round  his 
belt.  It  appeared  that  he  regarded  the  field  of  letters  as  a  field  of 
battle,  only  to  be  entered  in  full  panoply. 

"Where  is  my  sword?"  he  used  to  say  at  nine  o'clock,  as  other 
children  say,  "Where  is  my  spelling-book?" 

We  used  to  be  entertained  from  time  to  time  with  animated 
descriptions  of  his  educational  progress.  This,  it  appeared,  was 
magnificent. 

"  You  will  be  charmed  to  hear,"  his  mamma  wrote  to  his  Cara 


" ILLUSTRISSIMO   SIGNOR  BEBE"  67 


Luisa,  "that  Bebe  brings  home  always  des  diplomes  dc  sagesse 
(diplomas  for  good  behavior). 

"  It  is  rather  a  mystery,  but  it  is  no  less  true  that  he  gains  them." 

We  were  charmed  and  also  rather  surprised.  For  myself, 
reflecting  upon  past  anecdotes,  I  was  a  little  inclined  to  think  that 
in  the  case  of  the  Illustrissimo,  the  pen  might  not  be  mightier  than 
the  sword.  I  suggested  to  Cara  Luisa,  that  perhaps  the  sword 
induced  the  pen  to  inscribe  these  noteworthy  certificates. 

"  Bebe  gets  always  his  diplomes  de  sagesse''  wrote  another  friend 
of  his  family.  "  We  don't  quite  understand  why,  as  he  stays  at  home 
from  school  whenever  he  is  inclined  to,  which  is  generally." 

It  was  at  this  time  thai:  the  wonderful  autograph  letter  was 
written  which  stands  framed  on  the  little  table.  I  was  thinking 
then  of  returning  to  visit  Florence,  and  Cara  Luisa  spoke  of  this  in 
answering  the  letter,  and  said  that  she  would  take  to  the  Illustrissimo 
a  veritable  sailor  costume  which  she  could  buy  in  London,  the 
costume  of  "un  vera  capitano  inglese."  From  this  moment  until 
we  reached  Florence,  every  visitor  who  entered  the  house  was 
greeted  at  the  door  with  the  ecstatic  and  excited  proclamation  that 
"  La  Luisa,  la  Luisa"  was  coming  back  and  was  bringing  him  the 
costume  of  a  real  "capitano  inglese."  "La  Luisa"  took  it,  collar 
and  anchors  and  cords  and  whistle,  gold-banded  cap  and  cutlass 
and  all.  Among  all  his  other  uniforms  he  had  never  possessed  this 
one.  When  she  went  to  call,  she  asked  the  servant  politely  for 
Signor  Roberto,  and  she  was  sitting  alone  in  the  salon  when  he 
entered. 

He  had  grown  and  lost  his  plumpness,  he  wore  a  little  coat,  and 
his  curls  were  cropped  close  to  his  head,  and  his  hair  was  no  longer 
golden.  But  he  was  still  as  ever  Illustrissimo  Signor  Bebe«  He 
approached  her  holding  out  his  hand  to  shake  hands  in  the  proper 
English  style,  in  deference  to  her  foreign  sojourns. 


68  "ILLUSTRISSIMO   SIGNOR  BEBE" 

"High  do  you  do?"  he  remarked  triumphantly.  "High  do 
you  do,  La  Luisa?  Do  you  spik  English,  I  spik  English."  And 
having  exhausted  his  vocabulary,  he  poured  forth  a  volley  of  his 
native  Italian,  the  point  of  which  was,  of  course,  his  desire  to  put  on 
immediately  the  costume  of  the  real  English  captain.  His  mamma 
thought  she  had  taught  him  to  say,  "  How  do  you  do,"  but  the 
fact  that  it  became  "  High  do  you  do"  when  he  reached  the  salon 
was  of  small  moment.  He  felt  himself  perfectly  at  ease  in  his 
character  of  linguist. 

"And  how  about  the  diplomes  de  sagesse,  Bebe?"  asked  his 
visitor.  "  How  do  you  get  them,  when  they  tell  me  that  you  stay 
at  home  so  often,  and  scarcely  go  to  school  at  all  ?  " 

He  made  a  fine  sweeping  gesture  of  triumph. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  You  see  !  there  are  some  of  those  others  who 
go  every  day  and  do  not  get  any.  And  I — I  who  stay  at  home  so 
many  days,  can  still  get  one  every  time." 

This,  it  was  suggested  later  by  a  subtle  mind,  was  perhaps  an 
excellent  reason,  the  sole  occasions  when  the  recipient  was  "  sage  " 
being  when  he  was  absent  from  the  scene  of  his  scholastic  triumphs. 
When  we  were  in  Rome  a  few  weeks  later  "  La  Luisa"  received  a 
photograph.  It  represented  a  small  English  naval  officer  with  a 
small  Italian  face,  apparently  seated  on  the  shore  of  the  boundless 
ocean,  and  looking  most  nautically  into  the  "offing"  whatsoever 
the   "offing"  maybe. 

Its  place  is  on  the  table  near  the  framed  letter,  and  under  it  is 
written  : — ■ 

"  Illustrissimo  Signor  Bebe,  qui  regarde  son  navire." 


THE   DAUGHTER  OF  THE 
CUSTODIAN 


The  guide  book  only  mentions  her  father,  but  we  did  not  see 
her  father,  we  only  saw  her,  and  I  was  glad  it  was  so.  I 
dare  say  her  father  is  a  very  nice  old  Roman  peasant,  but 
she  performed  his  duties  in  a  much  more  interesting  way  than  he 
could  have  done,  I  am  sure,  and  she  was  such  a  pretty,  sweet- 
voiced,  friendly,  smiling  little  thing  that  it  was  a  pleasure  to  walk 
round  the  old  Roman  cemetery  guided  by  her,  and  listening  to  her 
soft  Italian  chatter. 

It  was  chatter,  and  bright  childish  chatter  too,  and  one  certainly 
never  saw  a  brighter  pair  of  dark  eyes  or  a  happier  little  face,  and 
yet  she  lives  under  the  shadow  of  the  dark  cypresses  in  an  old 
deserted  graveyard;  when  she  sees  the  sunshine  in  the  morning 
she  sees  it  first  piercing  through  these  shadowy  cypress  trees  to 
dapple  kindly  the  old  grey  moss-grown  monuments  and  granite 
slabs,  and  I  suppose  she  has  played  among  the  mounds  of  earth 
since  her  very  babyhood. 

It  is  in  the  old  Protestant  cemetery  outside  Rome  that  she  lives, 
in  the  small  house  just  near  the  big  iron  gates  which  are  always 
kept  locked  until  some  visitor  rings  the  queerly  tinkling  little  bell 
which  hangs  outside,  and  either  the  child  or  her  father  the  custodian 


/O  THE  DAUGHTER    OE  THE  CUSTODIAN 

goes  to  open  it,  and  shows  the  strangers  the  graves  they  have 
come  to  see. 

It  is  quite  an  old  cemetery.  It  was  laid  out  at  the  beginning 
of  the  century,  but  is  no  longer  used  to  bury  people  in,  but  strangers 
who  are  in  Rome — particularly  English  and  Americans — nearly  all 
go  there  just  to  stand  and  look  at  two  graves. 

They  are  the  graves  of  two  great  English  poets,  both  of  whom 
had  sad  lives,  both  of  whom  died  sad  deaths,  and  both  of  whom 
all  the  world  knows  and  all  the  world  remembers. 

They  are  the  poets  Shelley  and  Keats.  It  was  these  graves  I 
went  to  see  and  which  the  custodian's  little  daughter  guided  me  to 
with  my  English  lady  friend  and  my  Italian  companion. 

It  was  a  lovely  day  in  the  very  early  spring  when  we  drove  out 
to  the  cemetery,  but  in  spite  of  the  sunshine  it  looked  rather  dark 
under  all  the  tall  cypresses  as  our  carriage  stopped  before  the 
gate. 

"The  gate  seems  to  be  locked,"  I  said.  "  Perhaps  we  have  not 
come  at  the  right  hour." 

"  I  suppose  one  must  ring  the  bell,"  said  my  companion.  "  Evi- 
dently one  must.     You  see  the  chain  hangs  outside." 

So  she  got  out  of  the  carriage  and  pulled  the  chain;  the  bell 
gave  its  queer  cracked  tinkle  and  almost  immediately  the  little  girl 
came  out  of  the  house  and  ran  towards  us  with  a  big  key. 

She  opened  the  gates  and  stood  smiling  up  at  us  as  we  entered, 
as  if  we  had  been  guests  she  had  been  expecting  and  was  very 
pleased  to  see.  It  was  evident  that  her  father  was  away,  and  that 
she  had  been  left  to  perform  his  duties. 

"  Buon  giorno,  Signore,"  she  said  sweetly,  and  we  all  three 
smiled  back  at  her  and  said  "  Buon  morno  "  in  return. 

She  was  not  more  than  eight  or  nine  years  old  at  the  most,  and 
at  first  I  thought  that  as  she  was  so  young  she  perhaps  might  not 


THE  DAUGHTER    OF  THE  CUSTODIAN  71 

know  the  name  of  Shelley,  or  might  not  remember  it  as  it  was 
English  and  she  was  only  used  to  hearing-  Italian  words. 

"Ask  her,"  I  said  to  my  companion,  "to  show  us  the  grave 
where  the  great  English  poet  is  buried.  So  many  people  come  to 
see  it  that  of  course  she  will  have  heard  it  spoken  of  often  enough 
to  have  remembered.  She  will  not  know  the  name  perhaps,  if  you 
mention  it,  but  she  will  know  there  is  the  grave  of  an  English  poet, 
which  the  forestieri  always  want  to  see." 

But  I  need  not  have  had  any  doubts.  The  moment  my  com- 
panion spoke  of  the  "  Poeta  inglese  "  her  pretty  little  face  lighted 
up  and  her  bright  dark  eyes  smiled  more  brightly  than  ever. 

"Si,  si,  Signora  !  "  she  exclaimed.      "Shelli — Shelli !  " 

She  made  it  an  Italian  name — giving"  it  an  Italian  termination, 
but  it  was  clear  that  she  knew  all  about  it. 

She  led  the  way,  running  lightly  before  us  up  a  rather  steep 
path  between  the  graves  until  she  turned  a  corner  and  presently 
stopped  triumphantly  before  a  deserted-looking  nook  near  a  dark 
grey  moss  and  lichen  covered  wall. 

"Shelli,"  she  said,  waving  her  little  hand  and  smiling  brilliantly, 
"Shelli." 

And  before  us,  among  the  graves  and  under  the  cypresses,  there 
was  a  slab  of  dark  granite  fitted  into  the  earth,  and  all  that  I 
remember  now  of  the  inscription  (which  I  think  was  in  Latin)  is  the 
name  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  Those  of  the  children  who  know  of 
this  poet  will  remember  how  he  was  overtaken  by  a  squall  while  in 
a  boat  with  his  friend  at  sea,  and  how  his  body  was  afterwards 
washed  ashore  in  the  Bay  of  Spezia,  and  burned  there  on  a  funeral 
pyre  on  the  sands,  his  friend  Lord  Byron  looking  on  as  mourner. 
But  his  heart  would  not  burn,  and  it  is  his  heart  only  which  lies 
under  the  stone  slab  in  that  shady  corner  outside  Rome — his 
strange,  wild,  ardent,  often  troubled  poet's  heart.      It  prompted  him 


72  THE  DAUGHTER    OF  THE  CUSTODIAN 

to  do  many  things  which  were  against  the  world's  laws  and  which 
the  world  blames,  but  I  have  always  thought  that  in  the  depths  of 
this  heart  which  would  not  burn  when  his  body  fell  to  ashes,  he 
truly  believed — whether  he  was  mistaken  or  not — that  he  was  rio-ht, 
and  that  mightier  laws  not  of  this  world  would  understand  him  and 
blame  him  less. 

We  stood  in  the  cypress- shadowed  corner  for  a  while,  looking  at 
the  grave  and  talking  to  each  other  about  it,  our  small  guide  regard- 
ing us  with  great  interest,  and  now  and  then  volunteering  some 
friendly  explanation  in  Italian. 

A  great  vs\2s\y  forestieri  came  to  see  this  grave,  she  told  us.  Oh, 
a  great  many  !  And  it  was  only  a  heart  that  was  buried  there. 
Her  father  had  told  her.  It  was  the  heart  of  a  great  English  milord 
who  had  written  books  which  everybody  read.  He  had  been 
drowned,  and  his  body  had  been  burned  at  Spezia,  by  the  sea 
which  drowned  him,  but  his  heart  had  not  been  burnt,  and  was 
brought  here. 

"Ask  her  if  there  is  any  other  grave  here  that  the  fores tieri 
wish  to  see,"  I  said  to  my  companion. 

She  looked  as  animated  as  she  had  done  when  we  asked  her 
about  Shelley.  She  looked  as  if  she  were  quite  delighted  at  having 
something  else  to  show  us  which  we  should  be  sure  to  be  inter- 
ested  in. 

"  Keatsi,"  she  said  in  her  droll  little  Italian  way.     "  Keatsi." 

"  She  means  Keats,"  I  exclaimed.  "  I  did  not  know  that  his 
grave  was  in  this  particular  cemetery." 

It  was  not  in  this  particular  cemetery  it  seemed.  This  was  the 
"  Old  Cemetery,"  but  there  was  the  other  cemetery  only  a  few 
yards  away,  and  the  grave  of  "  Keatsi,"  as  she  called  him,  was 
there. 

We  said  good-by  to  the  slab  of  granite  and  followed  her  down 


THE  DAUGHTER    OF   THE  CUSTODIAN  73 

the  steep  path  again  and  through  the  iron  gateway,  across  the  road 
and  over  some  grass  until  we  came  to  a  curious  narrow  entrance 
which  led  us  into  the  "  altro  cimitero."  Quite  near  the  entrance 
were  two  graves  with  white  headstones,  side  by  side,  and  very  close 
together. 

"  Keatsi,"  said  the  custodian's  little  daughter,  pointing  to  the 
nearest,  and  her  pretty  exultant  smile  showed  that  she  at  least  did 
not  know  anything  of  the  sad  story  of  the  broken  poet's  heart  that 
had  long-  ag;o  changed  to  dust  beneath. 

There  was  no  name  written  on  this  headstone ;  only  these 
sorrowful  words  : — 

"  This  grave  contains  all  that  was  mortai  of  a  young  English  poet,  who,  on  his 
death-bed,  in  the  bitterness  of  his  heart,  desired  these  words  to  be  engraved  on 
his  tombstone — 

1  Here  lies  one  whose  name  was  writ  in  water.'  " 

His  was  such  a  cruel  story.  He  was  so  young,  so  sensitive,  so 
full  of  dreams  and  ambitions.  He  himself  must  have  known  surely 
that  immortal  genius  burned  in  his  heart  and  brain,  and  that  from 
glowing  genius  all  his  dreaming  sprang.  He  poured  forth  his 
whole  life  and  strength  into  his  work,  and  then,  as  the  sole  return, 
suffered  the  mortal  aneaiish  of  seeing-  it  scorned,  derided,  and 
condemned  by  the  inhospitable,  uncomprehending  world.  Then  a 
fatal  disease — consumption,  that  most  cruel  and  hopeless  disease 
of  all — slowly  drained  his  life  and  courage  to  the  dregs.  At  first 
he  struggled  against  it — perhaps  he  could  not  believe  that  this  last 
blow  had  really  come,  it  must  have  seemed  too  hard — but  when  he 
died  in  Rome,  alone  save  for  his  one  true  generous  friend,  his  spirit 
was  broken,  his  poet  wings  hung  shattered,  he  could  hope  and 
dream  no  more. 


74  THE  DAUGHTER    OF  THE  CUSTODIAN 

"  Let  it  be  graven  on  my  tombstone,"  he  said  in  weary  bitter- 
ness, "  '  Here  lies  one  whose  name  was  writ  in  water.' ' 

It  seemed  to  him  that  his  life,  his  labor,  his  genius,  had  all  gone 
for  nothing — they  would  not  even  leave  a  ripple  on  the  great 
sweeping  river  of  Time.  And  yet  he  had  so  suffered  and  so  fiercely 
aspired.  If  he  had  only  known  what  Fame  would  give  to  him  too 
late,  that  pilgrim  feet  would  stand  by  his  grave  without  a  name, 
that  the  name  not  written  on  the  plain  headstone  would  blaze  in 
letters  of  golden  fire  on  the  page  where  only  the  names  of  the 
Immortals  burn. 

And  by  his  side — close  by  his  side — lies  that  one  generous,  faith- 
ful friend  who  was  true  to  him  and  tried  to  comfort  him  through  all 
his  anguish  and  loneliness,  when  he  was  poor,  despised,  and  deso- 
late, when  he  went  down  into  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death, 
in  a  foreign  land,  helpless  and  otherwise  as  it  seemed  utterly  alone. 

It  seemed  so  fitting  that  he  should  lie  there,  so  beautiful.  It  is 
such  a  great  and  noble  thing  to  be  a  faithful  friend.  Surely  there 
can  be  nothing  greater  anc{  sweeter  than  to  be  this  one  lovable 
thing.  To  be  faithful  and  a  comfort  through  failure,  grief,  mis- 
fortune, discouragement,  illness,  even  to  the  gates  of  death.  All 
this  Joseph  Severn  was  to  John  Keats,  and  because  of  this  his 
name,  too,  is  written  in  gold  upon  the  page  of  the  immortal  ones. 
One  cannot  remember  the  one  without  the  other,  one  cannot  lay 
flowers  upon  the  grave  of  one  without  scattering  them  upon  the 
turf  growing  above  the  kind,  true  heart  of  the  other.  The  kind, 
faithful  heart  is  as  great  as  the  marvellous  genius  which  so  burned 
and  glowed  that  it  can  never  be  forgotten. 

And  on  this  second  headstone  are  written  words  which  touch 
one's  heart  as  deeply  as  those  on  the  grave  without  a  name,  but 
they  move  one  in  a  happier  way. 

"  To  the  memory  of  Joseph  Severn,  devoted   friend  and  death- 


THE   DAUGHTER    OF   THE   CUSTODIAN  75 

bed   companion    of  John    Keats,  whom    he    lived  to   see    numbered 
among  the  immortal  poets  of  England." 

It  seemed  like  a  happy  ending  to  a  sad  story.  Through  the  long 
anxious  days  of  growing  illness  and  pain,  made  heavier  by  blighted 
hopes  and  ambitions,  Joseph  Severn  kept  near  his  friend.  It  was 
he  who  was  with  him  when  he  saw  the  blood  upon  the  handkerchief 
he  had  held  to  his  lips,  and  said,  "  I  know  the  color  of  that 
blood.  It  is  arterial  blood.  It  is  my  death  warrant."  It  was  he 
who,  watching-  him  through  the  dreadful  exhausted  nights,  when 
his  hair  was  dank  with  cold,  heavy  sweat,  sketched,  while  he  lay 
in  one  of  his  deep,  death-like  sleeps,  the  face  lying  upon  the  pillow 
which  is  reproduced  as  the  frontispiece  of  his  poems.  It  was  he 
who  heard  his  earliest  plaints,  and  watched  him  until  the  very  end, 
when  he  died,  believing  that  his  poor  life  had  been  a  broken 
bubble  gone  for  nought.  But  Severn  lived  many  years  afterwards. 
He  saw  the  ripening  of  the  harvest  his  poor  friend  never  gathered, 
and  he  rejoiced  while  he  mourned  for  him,  and  felt  his  own  life 
more  complete,  and  worth  the  living.  It  must  have  seemed  to  him 
that  it  was  almost  his  harvest  too. 

An  artist — "eminent  for  his  representation  of  Italian  life  and 
nature,"  his  headstone  tells  us — "  British  Consul  of  Rome,  and 
officer  of  the  Crown  of  Italy  in  recognition  of  his  services  to 
Freedom  and  Humanity." 

He  lived  a  fine  and  useful  life  of  his  own,  he  had  an  art  and  a 
career;  he  lived  to  be  an  old  man,  but  I  think  that  perhaps  in  the 
depths  of  his  generous  heart  he  liked  best  to  think  of  himself  as  the 
faithful  friend  whom  poor  John  Keats  clung  to,  and  looked  last  on 
when  he  died. 

His  headstone  was  erected  by  a  number  of  people,  who  loved 
and  revered  the  memory  of  the  friend  who  was  so  gentle  and  so 
true. 


7 6  THE  DAUGHTER   OF  THE  CUSTODIAN 

And  it  touched  and  pleased  me  so  much  to  see  that  the  list 
engraved  upon  the  back  of  the  stone  was  headed  with  names  all 
Americans  know  and  are  proud  of. 

As  I  passed  round  to  read  these  I  laid  my  hand  softly  on  the 
stone  without  a  name  when  my  companions  were  not  looking. 

"You  are  immortal  now,"  I  said.  And  afterwards  I  touched 
even  more  softly  the  headstone  placed  so  near. 

"  Constant  friend,"  I  thought,  "true  heart;  who  does  not  love 
you  and  is  not  grateful  ?     You  will  not  be  forgotten  either." 

The  custodian's  little  daughter  did  not  know  the  story  the  turf 
covered.  I  dare  say  she  often  wondered  why  the  forestieri  were  so 
fond  of  visiting  the  graves  of  signori  who  wrote  books,  why  they 
laid  so  many  violets  on  them,  and  sometimes  carried  away  a  leaf,  or 
a  few  blades  of  grass  as  if  they  were  precious,  and  why,  above  all, 
they  looked  sad  and  reverent,  and  spoke  to  each  other  in  such  low 
tones,  as  if  the  poet,  who  had  been  buried  a  lifetime  ago,  was  some 
near  friend  who  had  just  been  covered  with  the  earth. 

But  she  had  seen  it  all  so  often  that  she  was  quite  ac- 
customed to  it,  and  usually  occupied  her  time  in  innocent 
inspection  and  admiration  of  the  pretty  things  the  signoras  wore. 
She  had  spent  her  little  life  under  the  cypresses  and  among  the 
graves,  and  they  seemed  to  her  quite  ordinary  surroundings.  While 
I  was  standing  by  the  first  grave  I  felt  something  touch  me  gently, 
even  caressingly.  The  child  had  drawn  quite  near  me,  and  it  was 
her  small  hand.  Bright  as  the  day  was,  it  was  rather  cold  while 
driving,  and  I  wore  a  long  black  plush  mantle,  which  was  bordered 
with  soft  black  fox  fur,  and  which  had  very  long  sleeves  of  a  heavy 
brocade  that  fell  from  my  shoulders  to  the  bottom  of  the  cloak. 
It  was  this  which  had  attracted  her  attention,  and  she  had  put  her 
little  hand  out,  and  was  stroking  the  plush  and  fur. 


THE  DAUGHTER    OF  THE  CUSTODIAN  7 J 


"  Molto,  molto  bella  "  (very,  very  beautiful),  I  heard  her  whis- 
per quite  reverently  to  herself. 

The  little  hand  felt  so  gentle  and  caressing,  and  she  seemed  so 
pleased,  that  I  leaned  a  little  nearer  to  her  and  then  looked  down 
into  her  pretty  childish  face  and  smiled,  so  that  she  would  know  I 
did  not  mind  her  caressing  what  she  thought  so  nice.  She  under- 
stood  what  the  little  movement  and  smile  meant,  and  she  looked  sim- 
ply delighted.  She  gave  herself  up  to  examining  me,  touching  the 
plush  and  fur  admiringly,  and  lifting  the  long,  falling  sleeves  to  look 
at  the  heavy  brocade,  talking  softly  to  herself  in  Italian  all  the  time. 

"But  what  a  beautiful  mantle,"  she  whispered.  "  I  have  never 
seen  such  a  beautiful  thing.  This  that  it  is  made  of  is  far  more 
splendid  than  velvet ;  it  is  so  soft  and  thick.  And  what  long,  soft 
fur;  and  so  much.  The  Signora  must  be  a  very  grand  lady.  And 
what  beautiful,  soft  feathers  all  round  her  hat  !  " 

I  did  not  hear  her  say  all  this  myself.  I  only  heard  the  "  Molto, 
molto  bella,"  and  noticed  that  she  continued  whispering  as  she 
stroked  my  cloak.  It  was  my  Italian  companion  who  heard  her, 
and  told  me  afterwards. 

She  turned  to  this  lady  next,  I  heard,  and  found  a  great  deal 
to  admire  in  her  attire.  She  wore  a  black  cloth  dress,  which  was 
trimmed  with  black  and  gold,  and  it  was  this  trimming  our  small 
guide  found  so  splendid. 

"  You — you  are  dressed  in  gold,"  she  said  :  "  in  real  gold.  And 
you  have  even  a  bonnet  like  your  dress.  The  blonde  Signora  is 
dressed  all  in  soft  fur  and  something  that  is  much  more  beautiful 
than  velvet ;   and  you  are  in  gold.      How  rich  you  must  be  !  " 

Then,  my  companion  told  me,  she  looked  from  one  to  the  other 
of  us  curiously,  and  rather  pityingly. 

"But  you   have   no   earrings,"   she  said.      "Why    have   you   no 


78  THE  DAUGHTER    OF  THE  CUSTODIAN 

"We  do  not  wear  them,"  answered  the  young  lady. 

"  I  have  earrings,"  the  child  said;  "I  wear  them  always."  And 
she  touched  the  large  gold  hoops  in  her  ears.  "  How  strange  that 
the  Signore  who  are  so  rich  and  have  such  beautiful  clothes  do  not 
wear  any  !  " 

I  do  not  know  whether  she  thought  that  we  migfht  be  a  little 
mad — as  the  forestieri  sometimes  were — or  whether  the  idea  sug- 
gested itself  to  her  that  we  had  spent  all  our  money  on  real  gold 
frocks  and  stuffs  that  were  more  splendid  than  velvet,  but  it  is 
certain  that  she  felt  sorry  for  us.  Ouite  a  o-leam  of  li^ht  relieved 
her  expression  as  she  looked  at  my  English  friend  and  pointed  to 
her  ears. 

"  But  the  other  Signora,"  she  exclaimed,  "she  has  earrings  !  " 

One  of  us  at  least  had  earrings,  and  that  somewhat  lightened 
her  innocent  anxiety.  Bright  as  her  smiling,  dark-eyed  face  was, 
and  lightly  as  she  tripped  before  us  to  lead  the  way,  she  did  not 
look  very  strong,  and  I  could  not  help  noticing  that  she  had  rather 
a  troublesome  cough. 

"  Have  you  any  brothers  and  sisters?"  we  asked. 

"  Not  now,"  she  answered.  "There  were  seven  of  us;  but  all 
have  died  but  me.      One  baby  died  only  a  month  ago." 

"  You  have  a  bad  cough,"  my  companion  had  said,  as  we  were 
crossing  from  one  cemetery  to  the  other. 

"  Una  tossa  nervosa  "  (a  nervous  cough),  she  said,  quite  cheer- 
fully. 

"  But  you  must  take  care  of  it,  and  not  let  it  get  worse." 

Before  I  returned  to  the  carriage  I  put  some  pieces  of  silver  in 
her  little  hand.  One  always  gives  money  to  a  custodian,  and  it 
pleased  me  to  put  more  in  the  small  hand  than  I  should  have  placed 
in  the  larger  one. 

"  Grazie  tante,  Signora!      Grazie  tante  !  "  she  said,  looking  up 


THE  DAUGHTER    OF   THE   CUSTODIAN  79 


at    me    with    the    prettiest    possible    of    brilliant    smiles.       "  Buon 
giorno." 

She  ran  away  in  the  sunshine,  turning  to  smile  again  and  nod 
her  little  dark  head  to  us  gaily  and  gratefully.  Her  mother  was 
waiting  for  her,  and  we  saw  the  child  showing  her  the  money  with 
delighted  gestures.  They  were  standing  away  from  the  cypresses, 
outside  of  the  grey  walls,  in  the  bright,  warm  Italian  sunshine. 
And  I  was  glad  as  I  drove  away  that  it  was  in  the  brightness  and 
not  in  the  shadow  that  I  saw  the  last  of  the  childish  figure  of  the 
custodian's  little  daughter. 


A  PRETTY    ROMAN     BEGGAR 


The  dearest  thing  I  saw  in  Florence  the  last  time  I  was  there, 
was  a  delightful  little  American  boy  of  seven,  and  one  of  the 
most  charming  and  suggestive  in  Rome  was  a  small  fellow 
about  the  same  age,  who  sat  surrounded  by  the  stately  wonders 
and  spaces  of  St.  Peter's,  his  bright,  eager,  thoughtful  child  face 
upturned  to  his  mother  and  father,  who  were  sitting  and  talking 
together  near  him.  I  have  become  quite  clever  in  recognizing 
American  and  English  faces,  and  I  knew  this  little  boy  was  an 
American,  and  there  was  something  in  his  clear,  wide-awake  eyes 
that  made  me  want  to  stop  before  him  and  hold  out  my  hand  and 
say  : 

"  Come  with  me,  and  I  will  show  you  the  wonderful  old  places 
I  know  so  well,  and  we  will  tell  each  other  stories  about  them.  We 
can  make  marvellous  stories  in  almost  every  street,  and  I  shall  find 
out  all  sorts  of  new  things  when  I  see  the  temples  and  palaces  and 
great  ruins  through  your  seven-year-old  American  eyes." 

But,  as  we  were  quite  strangers  to  each  other,  I  could  only 
smile  at  him  and  pass  him  by.  I  had  been  sent  away  from  London 
by  my  doctors,  because  I  had  been  ill  for  a  long  time  after  an  acci- 
dent I  had  met  with  in  the  autumn  when  I  had  been  thrown  out  of 
my  carriage  and  dangerously  hurt.     They  said  that  London  fogs 


A    PRETTY  ROMAN  BEGGAR  8 1 

were  bad  for  me,  and  I  must  travel  where  I  could  see  the  blue  sky 
and  the  sun.  So  I  went  to  the  south  of  France  and  to  Italy,  and 
that  is  why  I  went  to  Rome,  which  is  one  of  the  cities  I  love  best 
of  all. 

I  wanted  to  be  quiet,  so  I  went  to  a  hotel  which  an  English 
Roman  told  me  afterwards  was  "  the  oldest,  the  most  respectable, 
and  the  dullest  in  Rome."  But  that  exactly  pleased  me,  and  I  could 
not  be  dull  with  three  interesting  people  with  me  and  all  old  Rome 
around  me.  I  liked  the  old  hotel.  I  liked  my  apartments  and  my 
comfortable  salon,  with  the  mysterious  frescos  on  the  ceiling — the 
frescos  we  were  always  trying  to  explain  to  each  other,  as  if  they 
were  conundrums.  Especially  I  was  fond  of  the  old  square  with 
the  elephant  bearing  an  obelisk  on  its  back  in  the  centre,  and  the 
hoary,  wonderful  old  Pantheon  at  the  corner. 

It  was  in  this  square  I  learned  to  know  my  pretty  beggar  whom 
I  want  to  make  a  tiny  sketch  of  to  hang  in  my  gallery  of  children. 
My  little  Roman,  so  far  as  beauty  goes,  is  one  of  the  most  perfect 
small  pictures  I  remember,  and  he  is  chiefly  interesting  as  a  study 
because  he  belongs  to  a  profession  which  I  think  does  not  really 
exist  in  America,  and  because  I  was  so  curious  to  know  what 
thoughts  there  were  behind  his  beautiful  child  eyes,  or  if  it  could  be 
that  there  were  no  definite  thoughts  at  all. 

He  was  a  professional  beggar  and  a  professional   beauty,  and, 

though  he  was  only  five  years  old,  it  was  quite  plain  that  he  knew 

perfectly  well  what  an  assistance  to  the  first  profession  the  last  one 

was.      He  would  have  been  taught  to  beg  if  he  had  not  been  hand- 

some  at  all,  but  I  am  sure  he  knew  that  he  would  not  have  had  so 

many  patrons,  or  half  so  many  soldi  if  he  had  not  been  so  pretty  to 

look  at.     To  a  stranger  it  seems  that  every  Roman  child  who  is  not 

rich  is  taught  to  regard  begging  as  a  sort  of  honest  industry  which 

any    useful    infant    will    cultivate.      After    one    becomes    somewhat 
6 


82  A   PRETTY  ROMAN  BEGGAR 

accustomed  to  the  swarms  of  little  boys  and  girls  who  rush  to  one's 
carriage  when  it  stops  before  a  church  or  palace  and  scramble 
clamoring  up  the  long  flights  of  steps  after  one,  they  begin  to  be 
even  a  little  amusing.  They  do  not  look  the  least  uncomfortable  or 
hungry,  some  of  them  are  pretty,  and  often  they  are  picturesque 
because  they  are  dressed  in  the  Roman  peasants'  dress,  in  the  hope 
that  some  artist  will  want  to  put  them  in  a  picture  and  pay  them 
for  sitting  as  models.  And  they  generally  appear  to  be  amusing 
themselves  together,  and  seem  to  find  it  rather  a  joke  to  chase  after 
these  princely  strangers  who  have  nothing  better  to  do  than  drive 
about  and  look  at  churches  and  pictures  and  ruins.  I  am  convinced 
that  they  think  us  great  simpletons,  but  they  would  be  sorry  to  see 
us  wiser  because  that  would  make  their  profession  less  lucrative.  It 
is  their  cheerful  audacity  which  makes  one  smile  at  last.  They 
know  the  forestieri  so  well  (forestieri  is  the  Italian  word  for 
"  foreigners").  They  know  that  a  rather  shy  or  inexperienced  one 
will  feel  that  if  a  bouquet  of  violets  is  forced  into  his  or  her  hand  it 
must  be  paid  for,  so  violets  are  thrown  into  one's  carriages,  little 
clusters  are  forcibly  attached  to  the  coats  of  masculine  passers-by, 
and  it  is  only  when  one  has  become  quite  hardened  that  one  dis- 
covers how  to  toss  them  back  into  the  small  basket  with  an  amiable 
smile  and  "  Non,  grazie,  non."  There  is  another  thing  they  have 
learned,  which  is  that  even  the  forestieri  who  do  not  understand 
Italian  are  more  than  likely  to  know  French,  so  some  of  the  smallest 
ones  have  been  taught  one  or  perhaps  two  mournful  French  phrases 
which  they  say  over  and  over  again  as  they  run  after  one.  I  shall 
not  soon  forget  a  plump,  well-fed,  cheerful  little  girl  in  a  gay  apron 
and  Roman  head-gear,  who  trotted  after  me  up  and  down  a  long 
flight  of  steps  near  the  Pincio,  saying  as  fast  as  she  could  "  Je 
meurs  de  faim,  je  meurs  de  faim,"  which  is  the  French  for  "  I  die 
of  hunger,  I  die  of  hunger." 


A    PRETTY  ROMAN  BEGGAR  83 

"  You  little  story-teller,"  said  the  English  lady  who  was  with 
me.  "  You  are  stuffed  as  full  of  macaroni  as  you  can  possibly  be." 
And,  though  she  spoke  English,  the  child  evidently  recognized  that 
she  had  not  produced  her  effect  on  these  "  Inglesi,"  for  she  gave 
us  up  as  a  bad  investment,  with  a  sly  little  smile. 

I  suppose  my  pretty  beggar  boy  had  been  a  model  as  well  as  a 
beggar  ever  since  he  could  walk,  perhaps  even  before.  His  mother 
and  the  woman  who  was  always  with  her  were  evidently  models 
when  they  had  good  fortune.  They  were  handsome  women  who 
wore  the  picturesque  Roman  dress,  and  sat  or  stood  in  the  sun  in  the 
old  square,  with  baskets  of  violets  near  them,  which  they  professed 
to  sell.  About  them  played  my  pretty  little  Roman  and  his  com- 
panion, who  was  about  the  same  age  as  himself,  and  almost  equally 
pretty.  Both  of  them  were  dressed  like  small  copies  of  picturesque 
bandits  on  the  stage  ;  they  had  short,  bright-colored  jackets  and 
knee-breeches,  and  bands  crossed  round  their  legs,  and  both  had 
broad-brimmed,  rather  pointed  hats  of  soft  felt  on  their  full,  silky, 
curling  hair. 

They  were  both  charming,  but  my  little  fellow  was  either  the 
bolder  or  the  prettier  or  the  more  coaxing  of  the  two,  I  don't  know 
which  it  was  ;  but  somehow  he  always  seemed  to  know  quite  well 
that  he  was  my  favorite.  He  had  such  soft,  round  cheeks,  the 
color  of  a  very  ripe  peach — an  Indian  peach,  perhaps,  with  the  red 
showing  through  the  downy  brown  ;  he  had  such  a  dimpling  laugh, 
and  such  large,  soft  brown  eyes,  and  such  a  lot  of  thick,  chestnut 
brown  curls.  His  curls  looked  soft,  too;  he  looked  soft  and  warm 
all  over,  as  if  he  would  feel  like  a  rabbit  or  a  squirrel,  if  one  took 
him  in  one's  arms. 

The  first  time  I  saw  him  was  one  afternoon  when  I  was  going  to 
drive  to  the  Pincio  to  hear  the  band  which  plays  there  every  day 
from  four  to  six. 


84  A   PRETTY  ROMAN  BEGGAR 

My  carriage  used  to  wait  in  the  courtyard  until  I  came  down 
the  stairs  and  got  into  it  at  the  foot  of  them;  but  this  day,  after  we 
had  driven  through  the  entrance  into  the  square,  we  had  to  send 
for  a  cushion  or  something  which  had  been  forgotten,  and  so  we 
waited  and  my  pretty  beggar  saw  us. 

He  was  very  faithful  to  the  exigencies  of  his  profession.  I 
noticed  afterward  that  he  always  stopped  playing  when  he  saw  any 
one  approaching  to  whom  his  business  instincts  taught  him  he 
might  apply,  and  he  always  trotted  after  them  quite  far  enough  to 
give  them  a  fair  trial.  So,  seeing  the  carriage  with  the  two  horses 
and  a  comparatively  resplendent  coachman  waiting  before  the  court- 
yard entrance  of  the  big  hotel,  and  seeing  that  it  contained  foresr 
tieri — ladies  in  velvet  and  furs,  one  of  whom  leaned  ao-ainst  a  crim- 
son  silk  cushion,  he  felt  that  this  was  a  business  opportunity  not  to 
be  neglected,  and  came  running  across  the  square  followed  by  his 
companions.  I  suppose  it  was  the  crimson  cushion  which  caused 
him  to  single  me  out,  or  perhaps  he  had  seen  me  smiling  at  his 
prettiness  as  he  ran  towards  us  in  the  sun — certainly  both  he  and 
his  friend  directed  their  active  attention  to  me. 

Only  a  little  Italian  beggar,  and  a  professional  beauty  at  that, 
could  have  begged  as  he  did — with  such  gayety  and  coaxing,  and 
such  perfect  freedom  and  friendliness.  It  was  not  his  role  to  say 
<(  Je  meurs  de  faim  " — his  was  a  comedy  part  and  in  the  company  oi 
two  he  was  the  "  leading  gentleman,"  because,  though  his  compan- 
ion was  almost  as  pretty  as  he,  and  did  the  same  things  and  re- 
peated the  same  words,  one  felt  sure  he  had  not  originated  them  ; 
I  had  an  idea  that  he  admired  his  friend  very  much,  and  respected 
his  professional  talents  immensely,  and  adored  him. 

"  Bella  signora,"  they  both  clamored  gaily,  showing  their  white 
teeth  and  dimples,  and  jumping  up  and  down,  holding  out  little 
soft  brown  palms.       "Bella  signora,  uno  soldino — uno  soldino  ;   via, 


==g3        fflg    I  ,  i-Wlltl/HIIIKHUKKUj    .. 


77  ii/ii/i/t' 


■    ,  flK/tll{l'l«<(IK'<lllle. 

[II  .     - 

I 

! 

fffftlWMftiliBlWflfWli 


BELLA    SIGXORA,    UNO    SOLDINO  1 


!  ,? 


A    PRETTY  ROMAN  BEGGAR  87 

bella  signora,  uno  soldino  "  (Beautiful  lady,  a  little  penny — a  little 
penny  ;  oh,  come  now,  beautiful  lady,  a  little  penny). 

"  Via  "  does  not  literally  mean  "  Oh,  come  now,"  but  I  think 
that  is  the  only  way  to  put  it  into  English  when  a  little  beggar  says 
it  in  that  coaxing,  expostulatory  way.  Nothing  could  possibly  have 
been  more  coaxing  than  that  "via."  He  made  it  express  so  much. 
"  Oh,  come  now,"  it  seemed  to  say,  "you  are  a  miladi  Inglese. 
You  go  out  in  a  grand  carriage  with  the  big  horses.  You  drive  to 
the  Pincio  and  listen  to  the  music.  You  have  a  purse  full  of  little 
pennies  and  silver  pieces  in  your  pocket.  And  see  how  pretty  I  am, 
and  soft  and  bright  my  eyes  are  when  I  laugh  at  you.  Oh,  come 
now,  what  do  little  pennies  matter  to  miladies  like  you  ?  " 

And  he  laughed  all  the  time,  and  looked  at  me  with  such  gay 
confidence  in  my  friendliness  and  admiration.  I  suppose  he  had 
studied  faces  too  long  not  to  understand  the  sort  of  smile  that 
meant  at  least  two  or  three  soldi.  I  am  always  being  told  it  is 
wrong  to  encourage  beggars,  but  I  am  afraid  I  do  encourage  them 
disgracefully  sometimes.  I  took  a  nice  handful  of  soldi  out  of  my 
purse  and  bent  over  the  side  of  the  carriage;  half  I  put  into  one 
soft  little  brown  paw  and  half  into  the  other,  laughing  into  the 
bright  mellow  dark  eyes  that  laughed  back  at  me,  and  when  I  put 
the  coins  down  I  gave  each  dusky  soft  paw  a  little  pat.  I  could  not 
remember  that  these  were  small  professional  beggars.  It  seemed 
as  if  Boy  and  the  Socialist  were  five  years  old  again,  and  their 
lovely  mops  of  hair  were  dark  instead  of  golden,  and  they  were 
dancing  about  begging  for  pennies.  No  little  beggars  could  have 
been  bolder  or  gayer,  or  more  assured  than  Boy  or  Socialist  were. 
They  were  quite  professional  as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  and  they 
were  always  sure  they  would  get  their  soldini.  What  an  astonish- 
ing thing  it  would  have  seemed  to  the  passers-by  to  have  seen  a 
Signora  Inglese  take  a  little  Roman  beggar  suddenly  in  her  arms, 


A   PRETTY  ROMAN  BEGGAR 


hold  him  on  her  knee  and  kiss  his  velvet  cheeks — but  to  me  that 
would  have  seemed  the  most  natural  thing  to  do.  These  two  did 
not  often  have  so  many  soldi  given  them  at  once,  it  was  evident. 
They  looked  so  delightful  and  laughed  so,  and  gave  such  triumph- 
ant little  hops  as  they  clamored,  "Grazie,  Signora,  grazie,  grazie  !" 
("Thank  you,  lady,  thank  you,  thank  you.")  And  then  they  took 
each  other's  hands  and  scampered  across  the  square  together.  Of 
course  I  looked  after  them.  I  could  not  help  it.  And  when  they 
reached  the  corner  near  the  Pantheon  the  "leading  gentleman" 
had  one  of  his  pretty  inspirations.  He  checked  his  run  for  a 
moment,  and  wheeled  round,  still  holding  his  companion's  hand, 
and  with  the  most  graceful  little  smiling  gestures  he  threw  me  a 
whole  butterfly  flight  of  kisses  and  his  friend  did  the  same. 

"  Ah,  how  pretty  !  "  said  someone  in  the  carriage.  "  Only  a 
little  Italian  beggar  could  do  that.  Imagine  a  London  crossing 
sweeper  throwing  one  kisses  when  one  gave  him  a  '  brown.'' 

If  I  had  been  able  to  remain  in  Rome,  as  I  had  planned  to  do,  I 
should  have  had  the  opportunity  of  knowing  more  of  my  fascinating 
little  beggar.  Soldi  and  smiles  every  day  for  a  few  weeks  would 
certainly  have  made  us  quite  intimate,  and  I  could  have  talked  to 
him  quite  freely.  I  had  intended  to  remain  in  Rome  until  after 
the  Easter  fetes  and  ceremonies,  and  I  was  beginning  to  feel  very 
well  and  happy  in  those  first  beautiful  sunshine  and  flower-flooded 
days  of  the  early  Roman  spring.  But  I  received  a  letter  one 
morning  which  set  me  in  a  few  hours  on  my  way  to  America,  and 
two  weeks  from  then  my  pretty  Roman  beggar  was  thousands 
of  miles  away,  and  I  walked  into  a  bed-room  in  my  house  in 
Washington  where  a  boy  with  eyes  as  dark  as  his  lay  waiting  for 
me  with  cheeks  and  hands  hot  with  fever. 

But  before  the  letter  came  I  had  seen  my  little  beggar  every 
day.      Every  time  my  carriage   passed  out  of  the  courtyard  of  the 


A    PRETTY  ROMAN  BEGGAR  89 


hotel  he  came  running  for  his  soldini  in  the  most  delightful  spirits  ; 
every  day  he  and  his  companion  laughed  and  danced  and  showed 
their  dimples  and  white  teeth  and  kissed  their  hands,  and  every  day 
I  was  rather  tempted  to  coax  the  "  leading  gentleman  "  into  my  car- 
riage and  take  him  on  my  knee  for  a  drive  on  the  Pincio.  I  wanted 
also  to  take  him  to  a  grand  confectioner's  on  the  Corso,  and  say  to 
him  :  "  You  may  have  whatever  you  like."  I  wonder  if  he  would 
have  quite  lost  his  little  wits  with  wonder  and  delight,  or  if  he 
would  have  been  practical  enough  to  fill  his  bright-colored  bandit's 
jacket  with  sufficient  indigestion  to  cast  a  slight  glow  over  the 
remainder  of  his  existence  after  he  had  recovered  from  it. 

My  companion  always  used  to  say  a  few  words  to  him  for  me, 
when  I  o-ave  him  his  soldini. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  asked  him  one  day,  "  why  it  is  that  the 
signora  bionda  gives  you  so  many  soldi  f  " 

He  smiled  charmingly,  but  shook  his  head, — 

"  No,  signora." 

"  It  is  because  she  has  two  bambini  of  her  own,  and  just  now 
they  are  far,  far  away  in  America,  and  she  cannot  give  them 
soldi,  so  she  gives  them  to  you.  The  signora  bionda  loves  bam- 
bini." 

I  was  quite  sure  that  he  looked  at  the  statement  in  a  purely 
professional  light,  and  was  not  the  least  sentimental  in  his  views  of 
it.  It  was  evident  to  him  that  this  miladi  inodese  or  americana  had 
an  amiable  weakness  which  might  be  cultivated  and  made  most 
useful.  The  " due  bambini"  were  certainly  to  be  relied  upon  as  a 
source  of  indefinite  soldi  if  the  memory  of  them  were  encouraged 
with  smiles  and  little  dancing  skips,  and  plenty  of  kisses  thrown 
gracefully  and  with  intention.  He  was  so  far  exhilarated  at  the 
prospect  that  he  beamed  all  over  and  threw  me  charming  kisses  at 
once.     And  the   next   time   he  did   not   wait   for  the   carriage,  but 


90  A  PRETTY  ROMAN  BEGGAR 

seeing  me  leave  the  hotel  on  foot,  he  ran  after  me  with  greater  con- 
fidence than  ever. 

"  Do  you  intend  to  beg  always  ?"  I  asked,  either  that  time  or  the 
next  that  he  followed  us.  "When  you  are  older,  you  will  be 
strong  enough  to  work  for  yourself.  You  will  be  too  strong  to 
beg.      Don't  you  think  so?  " 

It  was  at  that  moment  I  wished  I  could  have  seen  the  workings 
of  his  mind.      I  wanted  so  much  to  know  what  he  thought. 

But  it  was  not  possible  to  tell.  Perhaps  he  thought  the  signora 
inglese  was  making  a  little  joke  and  he  ought  to  smile  at  it  as  a 
compliment — or  perhaps  he  did  not  wish  to  commit  himself  for  fear 
of  saying  the  wrong  thing  to  such  excellent  patrons.  At  any  rate 
he  smiled  and  looked  up  at  us  both  in  his  prettiest  way  and  with 
his  gayest  air.  A  smile  like  his — as  ready  and  bright  and  soft, 
and  unprejudiced — was  a  fortune  in  itself.  At  least  he  was  quite 
aware  of  that. 

I  do  not  know  whether  I  have  made  a  sketch  of  him  which  will 
make  him  seem  real  to  those  who  read  it,  but  he  is  a  very  real  thing 
to  me,  though  I  barely  understood  a  few  sentences  of  his  language. 
There  was  some  soft  brightness  in  his  mellow  eyes  I  understood, 
and  something  in  his  childish  beautiful  face  which  somehow  spoke 
to  my  heart,  and  I  cannot  help  believing  that  he  will  not  always  be  a 
beggar,  but  will  find  something  for  his  dusky  little  hands  to  do 
when  they  are  bigger,  and  that  the  magnetism  and  cleverness  which 
made  him  always  the  leader  will  make  a  place  for  him  a  man  need 
not  be  ashamed  to  fill. 


EIGHT     LITTLE    PRINCES 


One  sees  them  in  all  the  photograph  shops  in  all  the  princi- 
pal cities  in  Europe.  Sometimes  they  are  babies  in  lace 
frocks,  sometimes  they  are  little  boys  in  sailor  suits,  and 
sometimes,  though  they  are  little  fellows,  they  are  dressed  in  mil- 
itary uniforms  and  are  drawing  themselves  up  and  making  a  fine 
salute  to  some  one  regal  or  to  the  regiments  they  are  supposed  to 
command.  I  am  very  fond  of  photograph  shops,  and  when  I  see  a 
picture  of  any  of  the  little  princes  I  cannot  waste  my  time  on  kings 
and  queens  and  emperors  until  I  have  looked  well  at  my  little  man 
and  made  up  my  mind  that  he  looks  happy,  and  as  if  he  enjoyed 
himself  and  did  not  mind  being  a  prince  at  all.  One  knows  by 
heart  the  faces  of  kings  and  queens  and  emperors  and  empresses, 
but  the  little  princes  change  each  year,  and  occasionally  there  is  a 
tiny  new  one,  and  that  is  very  interesting. 

I  made  the  intimate  acquaintance  of  five  delightful  happy- 
looking  plump  ones  in  the  shops  in  the  street  by  the  Alster-Bassin, 
in  Hamburg.  There  was  one  I  even  chose  at  once  for  my  favorite. 
I  saw  them  again  and  again  in  Berlin,  and  drove  by  their  palace, 
and  looked  up  at  their  nursery  windows,  with  the  bars  before  them 
to  keep  the  very  little  ones  from  tumbling  out ;  and  I  have  seen  their 
pictures  so  often  during  these  last  few  days  at   Prague  that   I   have 


92  EIGHT  LITTLE  PRINCES 

become  quite  fond  of  them,  and  yesterday  I  went  into  a  shop  and 
bought  photographs  of  them  in  all  sorts  of  poses,  and  they  are 
lying  on  my  desk  as  I  write. 

These  five  are  the  children  of  the  present  young  Emperor  of 
Germany  ;  their  grandmother  was  the  Princess  Royal  of  England, 
and  so  their  orreat-crrandmother  is  Oueen  Victoria. 

On  the  day  of  the  great  Jubilee  procession  and  ceremonials  in 
London,  when  Boy  and  the  Socialist  and  I  sat  and  watched  the  kines 
and  queens  and  princes  and  princesses  pass  by  in  the  midst  of  the 
music  and  great  pageant,  there  was  one  tall  superb  horseman  in  a 
splendid  white  and  gold  uniform,  who  was  cheered  loudly  and 
enthusiastically,  and  whom  everyone  admired.  "  What  a  handsome 
fellow,"  everyone  said.  "  He  is  the  most  royal-looking  of  all."  He 
was  the  Crown  Prince  of  Germany,  the  son  of  the  good  old  Emperor 
William,  and  strong  and  splendid  as  he  looked  he  was  even  then 
stricken  with  the  dreadful  malady  which  ended  in  his  death  not 
many  months  later,  though  in  those  few  months  the  old  Emperor 
died,  and  this  son  when  he  died  was  the  Emperor  himself. 

It  is  his  son  who  is  the  father  of  the  five  little  princes  I  am 
becoming  fond  of.  I  think  he  must  be  a  nice  young  father  and 
love  his  five  boys.  I  am  sure  their  young  mamma  is  very  fond  of 
them,  too.  She  has  a  loving,  motherly  face,  and  I  am  convinced 
that  when  she  has  her  five  boys  round  her — as  she  nearly  always 
has  in  the  photographs — she  never  remembers  she  is  an  Empress 
at  all. 

I  do  not  know  the  names  of  these  little  princes — at  least  I  only 
know  the  name  of  the  one  who  is  my  favorite.  He  became  my 
favorite  when  I  saw  a  darling  picture  of  him  in  Hamburg.  He  is  a 
beautiful  little  fellow,  with  a  round  face  and  laughing  eyes,  and  a 
great  deal  of  curly  soft  blonde  hair.  In  the  photograph  he  was 
dressed  in  a  pretty  white  sailor  suit,   with  a  blue  collar  and  cuffs, 


EIGHT  LITTLE  PRINCES  93 

and  he  had  short  socks  on  his  sturdy  little  legs,  and  was  gambol- 
ling along  gaily  before  his  mamma  in  a  stately  park  or  garden. 
Perhaps  it  was  in  the  park  at  Potsdam. 

I  always  looked  for  him  in  all  the  picture  shops,  and  I  always 
found  him  in  some  prominent  place  in  his  white  sailor  suit,  all 
dimples  and  smiles  and  curly  fair  hair.  His  name,  I  find,  is  Eitel, 
and  he  is  next  in  age  to  the  little  Crown  Prince,  who,  though  he  is 
not  much  bigger,  has  no  curls,  and  is  graver  and  always  wears  a 
uniform. 

I  have  before  me  five  photographs  of  these  small  German 
princes,  which  please  me  immensely.  They  please  me  because  they 
look  so  happy,  and  as  if  they  were  loved  and  cared  for,  not  because 
they  are  the  children  of  an  Emperor  and  Empress,  but  because  they 
are  dear  little  fellows. 

The  one  which  perhaps  amuses  me  the  most  is  called  Unsere 
Hohenzollern,  which  means  Our  Hohenzollerns,  Hohenzollern  being- 
the  name  of  the  Emperor's  family. 

This  photograph  is  that  of  a  handsome  room  which  the  young 
Emperor  is  just  entering.  The  Empress  is  sitting  in  an  easy  chair, 
and  on  her  knee  is  lying  a  tiny  baby,  evidently  the  very  youngest 
princeling  of  the  live.  He  is  so  very  new  a  baby  that  he  is  lying 
in  his  porte- enfanty  which  is  a  sort  of  dainty  lace  and  ribbon- 
trimmed  cushion  on  which  very  young  babies  in  most  Continental 
countries  are  bound.  His  mamma  is  bending-  over  and  looking  at 
him  as  every  mamma  looks  at  her  baby — as  the  mothers  of  all  the 
children  who  read  this  sketch  used  to  look  at  them — as  I  used  to 
look  at  Boy  and  the  Socialist  before  they  had  any  hair  worth  men- 
tioning, or  dreamed  of  wanting  dynamos  and  electric  motors. 

The  Emperor  has  just  passed  through  the  portieres,  and  he  is — 
as  always — in  uniform,  and  he  is  smiling  as  if  he  were  very  much 
amused.      I  know  what  it  is  that  amuses  him.      It   is   the    two  very 


94  EIGHT  LITTLE  PRINCES 

little  princes  who  are  next  in  age  to  the  baby,  and  who  are  stand- 
ing on  their  mamma's  left  hand  near  her  knee.  Pretty  Eitel,  with 
his  sailor  suit  and  curls,  is  on  her  right,  with  his  brother,  the 
Crown  Prince.  They  look  very  grand  indeed.  The  little  Crown 
Prince  is  in  uniform,  and  wears  a  sword.  His  left  hand  rests  on 
his  sword's  hilt,  and  both  he  and  pretty  Eitel  are  standing  very 
straight  with  their  heels  together,  and  are  greeting  their  papa  with 
a  military  salute. 

It  appears  that  if  your  papa  is  an  Emperor — which  does  not 
often  happen  in  America — when  you  see  him  you  must  salute  him. 
Of  course  I  have  no  doubt  you  may  kiss  him  afterwards,  but  he  is 
your  Emperor  as  well  as  your  papa,  and  you  must  salute  him  first 
(I  cannot  tell  you  how  pretty  Eitel's  bare  legs  in  his  short  socks 
look  drawn  together  in  that  grand  military  way.  They  are  quite 
warlike.) 

But  the  next  to  the  youngest  baby  is  only  in  white  frocks,  and 
sashes  and  bows  on  his  shoulders,  and  is  so  young  that  he  possibly 
does  not  know  what  an  Emperor  means  or  why  one  should  feel  it 
polite  to  scramble  up  from  one's  Noah's  Ark  and  draw  one's  fat  legs 
straight  and  put  one's  hand  to  one's  forehead  when  one's  papa 
comes  into  the  room.  But  his  brother,  who  is  the  next  to  the  next 
from  the  baby,  and  who  is  perhaps  even  as  much  as  four  years  old, 
has  more  experience  and  a  greater  sense  of  propriety,  and  while  he 
is  making  his  own  little  salute  he  is  lifting  his  baby  brother's  hand 
and  showing  him  how  to  put  it  to  his  forehead. 

"  See,"  he  seems  to  be  saying,  "  when  papa  comes  in  you  must 
put  your  hand  up  like  this.  You  must  salute  him.  That  is  a 
salute." 

And  I  am  sure  that  is  what  the  young  Emperor  Papa  is  laugh- 
ing at  as  he  looks  down  at  these  two,  and  in  a  minute — out  of  the 
photograph — he  will  kiss  them  both. 


EIGHT  LITTLE  PRINCES  95 


There  is  another  picture  where  the  Emperor  looks  very  nice. 
It  is  Christmas  Eve,  and  one  sees  a  large  table  with  a  splendid 
Christmas  tree.  It  is  lighted  and  loaded  with  presents,  and  on  the 
table  are  trains  of  cars  and  books,  and  all  sorts  of  charming  thing's. 
I  can  read  the  title  of  one  big  book.  It  is  "  Militair  Bilderbuch." 
It  is  full  of  pictures  of  military  scenes,  I  suppose.  The  Germans 
are  a  nation  of  soldiers.  One  little  prince  sits  on  a  spirited  rock- 
ing-horse with  a  drawn  sword  over  his  shoulder.  He  looks  as  if  he 
were  going  to  prance  into  battle  immediately.  The  Empress  has 
one  arm  round  the  Crown  Prince,  one  round  her  fourth  baby,  and 
pretty  Eitel  stands  before  her  showing  her  a  box  full  of  soldiers. 
Just  near  her  stands  the  Emperor,  and  he  is  taking  a  toy  trumpet 
from  the  Christmas  tree  and  is  going  to  give  it  to  the  baby  he  has 
on  his  arm,  and  who  has  grown  out  of  his  porte-enfant  and  has  hair, 
and  a  sash,  and  holds  out  his  hands  joyfully  for  the  trumpet. 

In  another  picture,  which  is  called  "  Das  neue  Bruderchen  "  (the 
new  little  brother)  the  Empress  is  showing  the  new  baby  Prince  to 
the  other  four,  who  are  all  crowding  round  him.  There  are  soldiers 
and  cannons  on  the  floor,  and  the  spirited  rocking-horse  has  stopped 
prancing,  and  is  looking  on  gravely,  even  thoughtfully.  In  another 
all  five  are  round  a  table.  The  Crown  Prince  stands,  the  baby  sits 
with  a  cushion  behind  him  and  plays  on  a  drum,  while  pretty  Eitel 
fires  a  cannon  at  a  fortress,  most  valiantly  defended  by  lead  soldiers, 
who  would  evidently  rather  perish  than  surrender.  That  picture  is 
called  ''  Unsere  Lieblinge,"  which  means  "  Our  Darlings."  There 
is  still  another  where  pretty  Eitel  and  his  brother  sit  in  a  boat  on 
an  ornamental  lake,  while  their  papa  stands  with  their  mamma 
looking  on,  and  taking  care  of  two  younger  ones.  I  have  one, 
too,  of  the  Emperor  with  his  little  soldier  Crown  Prince  leaning 
against  his  knee — and  there  is  yet  another  where  they  ride  on 
horseback  side  by  side.      I  have  studied  all  these  pictures,  and  I  am 


96  EIGHT  LITTLE  PRINCES 

quite  sure  that  these  five  little  princes  are  not  only  happy  and  loved 
in  photographs,  but  when  they  are  in  their  own  homes  and  are 
simply  little  boys  and  not  an  Emperor's  sons. 

I  have  two  pictures  of  another  Prince,  but  he  is  older  than  the 
little  Germans,  and  he  has  a  dark,  handsome  face,  with  a  rather 
sad  and  thoughtful  look — particularly  in  the  last  picture  where  his 
boyish  sailor  suit  and  hat  are  laid  aside,  and  he  is  in  uniform,  and 
leaning  on  his  sword. 

I  have  been  interested  in  him  because  I  know  he  has  not  been 
a  happy  little  prince,  and  I  am  afraid  he  cannot  be  a  happy  young 
king.  The  winter  of  the  jubilee  year  I  took  Boy  and  the  Socialist 
to  Italy.  Boy  had  been  there  before,  but  the  Socialist  had  not,  and 
that  time  I  took  them  for  a  special  reason.  I  had  heard  of  a  won- 
derful French  school  which  had  been  established  forty  years,  and 
whose  master,  a  fine  old  Frenchman,  had  prepared  boys  for  colleges 
in  England,  in  France,  in  Germany,  and  in  America.  It  seemed  a 
droll  thing  to  go  to  Florence  that  one's  boys  might  learn  French, 
but  I  had  heard  such  fine  things  of  this  old  master's  affectionate, 
strong  generalship  of  his  pupils,  that  I  made  this  long  journey  and 
sent  my  boys  to  him. 

It  was  then  I  began  to  see  this  young  prince,  and  be  interested 
in  him. 

He  was  the  young  prince  of  Servia,  and  the  fine  old  Frenchman 
taught  him  also,  so  we  naturally  should  have  heard  of  him  even  if 
we  had  not  seen  him.  But  we  saw  him  often.  Poor  boy,  he  had  a 
bad  father  and  a  beautiful  mother,  who  was  made  very  unhappy. 
She  was  Queen  Natalie,  and  she  was  young  and  lovely,  and  adored 
her  boy,  and  had,  indeed,  we  heard,  come  to  Florence  because  she 
wished  to  take  care  of  him  herself,  and  not  let  him  remain  exposed 
to  the  example  of  unmanliness  and  evil.  It  was  very  sad.  It 
seemed  that  between  father  and  mother  there  was  always  a  struggle 


EIGHT  LITTLE  PRINCES  97 

for  the   poor  little  prince,  but  it  was  his  beautiful   mother  he   loved 
and  wished  to  be  with. 

He  was  always  with  her.  We  had  our  "Appartamento  Mobiliato  " 
in  a  large  house,  on  the  Lungarno  Nuovo,  and  in  its  big  courtyard 
was  the  Russian  church.  The  poor  Queen  Natalie  was  very  devout, 
and  went  very  often  to  church,  and  the  young  prince  always  went 
with  her.  He  was  about  twelve  years  old,  a  tall,  slender  boy,  with 
soft  dark  eyes  like  his  mother's.  We  used  to  hear  the  carriage  roll 
into  the  courtyard,  and  then  we  often  looked  out  of  the  dining-room 
window  and  saw  the  two  ^et  out  and  cro  into  the  church  together. 
Quite  near  us  was  the  Cascine,  the  beautiful  park  by  the  river  Arno, 
which  is  the  fashionable  drive  and  promenade,  and  where  on  Sunday 
the  military  band  plays.  When  we  drove  there  we  often  saw  the 
prince  and  his  mother,  and  more  than  once  we  passed  them  as  they 
walked  side  by  side. 

When  Queen  Natalie  returned  to  Servia,  which  is  a  small 
royalty  that  is  dependent  upon  Russia,  the  struggle  between 
herself  and  King  Milan — the  prince's  father — began  more  fiercely 
than  ever.  The  Queen  Natalie  was  exiled  from  Servia,  and  Prince 
Alexander  taken  from  her.  But  he  was  not  happy  away  from  his 
mother;  he  was  so  unhappy,  in  fact,  that  he  became  very  ill.  But 
his  mother  was  courageous  and  determined,  and  would  not  pfive  her 
boy  up.  Fortunately  the  Czar  of  Russia  was  her  friend,  and  at  last 
Kinor  Milan  was  deposed,  and  Oueen  Natalie  allowed  to  return  and 
live  with  her  boy  again.  He  is  now  the  boy  king  of  his  small 
country,  but  it  is  his  Ministers  who  rule  for  him.  And  as  I  look  at 
this  last  picture  of  him  I  see  his  face  has  grown  much  graver  and 
older  than  it  was  when  I  used  to  see  it  in  Florence,  and  there  is  a 
look  in  his  dark  eyes  which  makes  me  wonder  if  he  does  not  talk 
very  thoughtfully  to  his  beautiful  mother  sometimes,  and  ask  her 
if  she  can  tell  him  how  a  boy  can  best  learn  to  be  a  king. 
7 


98  EIGHT  LITTLE  PRINCES 


The  other  little  prince — who,  dressed  in  a  white  frock,  rests  his 
baby  head  against  his  mother's  cheek,  and  clings  to  her  with  tiny- 
hands — is  not  really  a  prince,  after  all,  but  a  King — a  poor,  inno- 
cent baby  King,  with  no  one  to  protect  him  but  his  brave  young 
mother. 

■  I  am  never  happy  about  him.  I  am  always  sorry  for  him.  He 
touches  me  to  the  very  heart.  He  is  the  little  king  of  Spain.  He 
never  saw  his  father — he  was  born  after  his  death.  Poor  baby, 
born  with  the  weight  of  a  crown  upon  his  head.  And  it  is  not  a  light 
weight  to  bear  in  Spain.  Its  wearer  has  to  govern  a  passionate, 
tumultuous,  rebellious  people,  divided  amongst  themselves,  subtle 
and  clever  at  intrigue  and  plot,  who  would  not  be  sorry  for  the  five- 
year-old  baby,  who,  if  he  is  strong  enough  to  grow  up  to  be  a  young 
man,  will  be  called  upon  to  face  and  to  try  to  control  all  this.  And 
he  is  not  a  strong  little  prince.  He  has  always  been  delicate,  and 
not  very  long  ago  was  so  ill  that  everyone  thought  he  would  die; 
and  one  can  imagine  the  suffering  of  those  days  for  the  poor  mother 
watching  over  his  bed,  soothing  his  pain,  kissing  his  poor  little  hot 
forehead,  and  praying  only  that  her  baby  might  be  well  again  and 
smile  at  her  once  more,  while  she  knew  that  the  grand,  clever, 
Court  Ministers  were  only  waiting  to  see  whether  the  King  would 
live  or  die.  I  think  sometimes  she  must  have  longed  to  snatch  him 
away  from  all  those  watching  eyes,  and  carry  him  into  some  pretty 
room  where  she  could  hold  him  in  her  arms  and  rock  him  to  sleep 
all  by  herself,  and  talk  soft,  coaxing,  soothing  nonsense  to  him,  and 
never  let  him  hear  anyone  say,  "Your  Majesty." 

I  knew  a  bright,  clever  American  woman  who  had  seen  this 
little  King  often  under  very  interesting  circumstances. 

There  are  not  many  people — even  Spaniards — who  see  him  in 
the  same  way.  She  had  talked  to  him  and  shown  him  pictures, 
and   she   told  me   some  very  pretty  stories   about    him.      Somehow 


EIGHT  LITTLE  PRINCES  99 

it  rather  touched  me  when  she  described  this  wjiite-frocked 
baby's  entrance  into  a  room,  and  his  holding  out  his  tiny  hand 
to  be  kissed,  and  her  playful  talk  with  him  in  which  she  addressed 
him  always  as  "  Your  Majesty."  It  would  have  seemed  so  much 
more  natural  to  have  picked  him  up  in  one's  arms  and  kissed 
him  on  his  soft  cheeks  and  on  his  soft  neck,  and  to  have  held  him  on 
one's  knee  and  played  with  him.  But  of  course  it  would  be  very 
improper  to  romp  with  a  King  and  especially  a  King  of  Spain. 

But  there  is  one  thing  that  even  Kings  and  Princes  cannot  be 
deprived  of  even  by  etiquette — that  is  a  mother.  All  the  eight  I 
write  of  have  as  much  luxury  of  that  sort  as  if  they  were  not  Royal 
at  all.  And  this  little  King  of  Spain  has  one  of  the  tenderest,  and 
wisest,  and  sweetest.  She  lives  only  to  guard  and  love  and  care  for 
this  helpless  little  King.  She  is  young  and  fair,  and  a  Queen,  but 
she  does  not  care  for  the  world.  She  is  so  brave,  and  so  gentle, 
and  so  wise,  that  even  her  enemies  and  her  baby's  foes  have  learned 
to  respect  her  and  know  that  she  is  not  to  be  trifled  with.  It  is  said 
that  even  the  gentlest,  most  timid,  creature  will  be  brave  when  its 
little  ones  are  in  danger — even  a  soft-eyed  deer  will  stand  at  bay. 
This  young  Queen  Mother  is  brave  like  that,  and  I  think  that 
everyone  with  a  kind  heart  watches  her  with  interest,  and  hopes 
that  her  sweet  courage  and  faithfulness  will  be  rewarded,  and  her 
boy  will  live  to  wear  his  crown  through  a  long  life,  and  be  the  best 
King  that  Spain  has  ever  known. 

The  eighth  Prince  is  not  a  little  one  now.  He  is  twenty  or 
twenty-one  years  old,  but  I  think  of  him  as  still  a  boy,  because  I  have 
usually  seen  his  boy  pictures.  He  is  the  Prince  Royal  of  Italy,  and 
his  name  is  Victor  Emanuel — Vittorio  Emmanuele  in  Italian.  After 
all  I  think  it  is  his  beautiful  mother,  Queen  Margherita,  who  gives 
me  my  interest  in  him.  In  the  Italian  cities  one  sees  so  many 
pictures   of  her  with  the  ropes  of  her   famous  pearls  wound  round 


IOO  EIGHT  LITTLE  PRINCES 


and  round  her  throat.  She  has  made  herself  so  beloved  by  the  peo- 
ple, because  she  is  so  sweet,  and  also,  I  have  no  doubt,  because  she 
has  been  such  a  good  mother,  and  has  loved  her  one  boy  so  dearly. 

I  was  at  Milan  a  few  months  ago,  and  I  drove  out  to  Monza, 
which  is  one  of  the  Royal  summer  villas.  It  is  a  drive  of  about  two 
hours  from  Milan,  and  the  afternoon  was  one  I  shall  not  forget.  It 
was  early  spring  in  Italy,  and  the  long  winding  drive  through  the 
beautiful  park  where  troops  of  little  fawns  and  quite  unalarmed  deer 
made  their  way  through  the  young  trees  and  long  grass,  looking 
back  at  us  with  soft  wonder,  was  a  lovely  thing  to  remember.  The 
ground  was  yellow  with  countless  myriads  of  primroses,  and  the  air 
was  sweet  with  the  breath  of  as  many  violets.  I  stopped  the  carriage 
more  than  once,  and  we  got  out  and  filled  the  drapery  of  our  dresses 
with  the  pale  yellow  and  deep  blue  blossoms — enough  to  fill  our 
rooms  in  the  hotel  to  overflowing. 

The  King  and  Queen  were  in  Rome,  and  the  Villa  was  open  to 
visitors.  So  we  went  through  it — through  all  the  beautiful  saloons 
and  the  rest.  And  it  was  in  the  Queen's  bedroom  that  I  was 
assured  that  this  Prince  at  least  must  have  been  a  happy  one — as 
happy  as  love  could  make  him.  There  were  pictures  of  him  every- 
where. His  was  the  principal  picture  that  hung  on  the  walls.  He 
must  have  had  his  portrait  painted  every  year  since  he  was  born. 
When  Queen  Margherita  opens  her  beautiful  eyes  in  the  morning 
she  sees  him  at  all  ages.  As  a  baby  in  a  long  lace  frock,  as  a  baby 
in  a  short  one,  as  a  tiny  boy,  as  a  bigger  one.  He  is  represented 
from  stage  to  stage  until  he  stands  in  his  uniform  a  schoolboy 
prince.  That  pretty  sumptuous  room — the  bedroom  of  a  queen 
with  all  those  pictures  of  a  boy — loved  every  year  from  his  baby- 
hood with  that  love  which  makes  every  mother  a  queen  and  every 
queen  only  a  sweet  woman — that  pretty  bedroom  told  its  own  story 
of  a  happy  prince  who  may  be  a  good  king. 


EIGHT  LITTLE  PRINCES  IOl 


These  are  the  eight  Princes  I  feel  as  if  I  know  though  they  do 
not  know  me,  and  even  in  the  most  republican  country  in  the 
world — even  in  America  which  does  not  believe  in  kingfs — I  am  sure 
there  is  no  one  who  will  not  say  in  thinking  of  these  boys,  "  God 
keep  the  little  princes  and  help  them  to  care  for  their  people,  and 
God  bless  the  queens  who  are  their  mothers." 


ONE    WHO     LIVED     LONG,     LONG 

AGO 


It  would  be  very  difficult  to  tell  anything  at  all  definite  about  her. 
One  can  only  try  to   imagine  what    she  was    like,  what   she 
thought,   what  she  did,    and  how  her  young  life  was  passed. 
And  imagination,   however  powerful,  can  scarcely  be  relied  on  to 
depict  to  one  very  clearly  and  truly  the  things  that  happened  more 
than  1800  years  ago. 

More  than  1800  years  ago  she  died  in  the  ancient  city  of 
Pompeii,  an  awful  tragic  death,  which  2000  people  shared  with  her, 
perishing  in  the  most  overwhelming  catastrophe  the  world  has  ever 
known.  And  yet  to-day  one  can  pass  through  the  streets  she 
walked  about  in,  standing  in  the  "  peristylium "  or  court  of  the 
house  which  was,  perhaps,  the  one  she  lived  in,  and  where  her 
favourite  flowers  grew  ;  and  where  she  amused  herself  by  watching 
the  goldfishes  in  the  little  oblong  stone-lined  pool,  which  we  are 
told  was  called  the  Piscina.  One  sees,  perhaps,  her  very  own  little 
bedroom,  where  she  slept  with  her  playthings  about  her,  as  rosy 
and  peaceful  as  other  little  girls  sleep  to-day  in  their  bedrooms  in 
London  or  New  York.  And  one  can  stand  and  look  down  pity- 
ingly at  the  slender  lava  and  ash-encrusted  little  form,  which  was 
all    that    the    great    eruption    of  Mount    Vesuvius  on   the  24th  of 


iu,.vt  ■■"'/'.'.■  .•'..,/.■, 


mry4m^'V^mf&:;  'A 


I    SMOOTHED    ITS    FEATHERS    SOFTLY.' 


ONE    WHO   LIVED   LONG,    LONG   AGO  105 


August,  a.d.  79,  left  of  her  childish  body.  She  is  lying  by  her 
mother,  just  as  she  fell  when  they  were  trying  to  escape  among  the 
blinding  showers  of  hot  ashes,  red-hot  lapilli,  or  small  fragments  of 
pumice-stone,  and  the  sudden  deluge  of  boiling  water,  which  the 
great  volcano  poured  forth  alternately,  and  sometimes  all  at  once, 
and  which  turned  the  beautiful  day  into  black  night,  filled  the  air 
with  shrieks  of  terror,  and  the  narrow  streets  with  bewildered, 
agonized  people  losing  their  way  and  stumbling  in  the  horrible 
darkness  as  they  were  flying  for  their  lives. 

Many  hundred  years  she  lay  in  the  darkness  with  the  gay, 
luxurious  little  city  she  had  lived  in,  and  which  the  quaking  earth 
had  broken  into  ruins  and  the  burning  mountain  had  covered  with 
shower  after  shower  of  lapilli  and  ashes  until  it  was  buried  twenty 
feet  deep,  no  trace  of  it  left  to  show  that  it  had  ever  existed. 

When  one  stands  in  the  small  museum  and  looks  down  at  the 
slender,  lava-encrusted  frame,  which  looks  more  like  a  curiously- 
rough  gray  image  than  anything  else,  it  is  difficult  to  think  of  it 
as  the  body  of  a  real,  living  young  creature,  warm  and  soft,  and 
full  of  movement  and  colour.  And  yet  she  was  so — eighteen  hun- 
dred and  eleven  years  ago. 

If  she  had  died  as  others  do,  she  would  have  been  dust  centuries 
ago,  but  as  it  is,  she  lies  in  the  tiny  Pompeii  museum,  in  a  glass  case, 
near  that  other  lava-encrusted  image  which  is  supposed  to  have 
been  her  mother,  and  with  other  like  images  near  her,  and  one 
stands  and  looks  at  her  with  thrilled  wonder,  and  tries  to  imagine 
what  she  looked  like,  what  her  short  life  was,  and  if  all  was  quickly 
over  when  she  fell,  amid  the  stifling  ashes,  the  sulphurous  vapour, 
the  sudden  unnatural  crusts  of  hot  wind,  the  flashes  of  ohastly  light- 
ning,  and  the  awful  volcano's  thunder. 

In  a  case  near  her  there  is  a  poor  dog  with  what  seems  to  have 
been  quite  a  beautiful  collar  round   his   neck.      He  is  lying  in  a  dis- 


106  ONE    WHO  LIVED  LONG,    LONG  AGO 

torted  position  on  his  back,  his  feet  in  the  air,  and  his  mouth  open 
as  if  he  had  died  on  giving  a  last  yelp  of  terror  and  pain.  I  won- 
dered if  perhaps  he  had  been  her  dog,  and  I  hoped  he  was  not,  or 
that  she  had  not  heard  his  poor  cry  for  the  help  which  she  could 
not  give. 

It  was  her  figure  which  was  my  companion  all  the  soft  sunny 
day  as  I  wandered  through  the  once  brilliant  little  city  where  she 
had  lived  and  died.  My  friends  did  not  see  her,  but  I  did,  and 
fancied  even  that  I  felt  the  touch  of  her  little  hand.  No  one  could 
hear  her,  for  she  moved  so  softly.  But  when  I  imagined  that  she 
walked  with  me,  she  was  no  longer  a  poor  little  gray  lava-encrusted 
thing,  but  supple  and  pretty  and  soft,  and  clothed  in  the  delicate, 
graceful  garments  she  wore  so  long  ago — or  at  least  as  nearly  as 
my  imagination,  assisted  by  Alma  Tadema's  beautiful  pictures, 
could  array  her. 

But  for  those  wonderful  pictures  I  think  I  could  not  have  really 
called  her  to  life,  but  remembering  them  I  made  a  little  shadow 
which  seemed  almost  more  than  a  shadow — a  slender  figure,  in  a 
graceful  little  white  tunic  falling  in  simple,  lovely  folds,  and  with  a 
border  of  gold  or  purple,  or  purple  and  gold  together.  She  had 
small  sandals  on  her  slim  feet,  and  a  light  wreath  of  flowers  on  her 
delicate  head.  As  for  her  face,  I  only  seemed  to  see  that  it  was 
sweet  and  innocent  and  fair,  that  there  was  a  childish  rose  bloom  on 
her  cheeks,  that  her  eyes  were  deep  and  shadowy  under  their  long 
lashes,  and  that  she  had  blue-black  hair,  which  was  not  long,  but 
waved  softly  about  her  head  and  neck,  and  shaded  her  forehead  a 
little,  as  it  might  if  she  lived  in  the  present  day. 

She  was  my  guide,  and  she  seemed  to  tell  me  many  things  and 
make  the  dead  ancient  citv  live  aeain,  thouefh  I  do  not  know  how  I 
understood  her,  for  I  think  she  used  to  speak  Latin  when  she  was 
alive.     But  there  was  a  guide  in  uniform  who  led  our  party,  and  as 


ONE    WHO  LIVED   LONG,    LONG   AGO  \OJ 

he  explained  things  in  French,  perhaps  I  stole  the  words  from  him 
and  altered  them,  and  added  to  them,  and  translated  them  into  the 
music  of  the  voice  that  ceased  speaking  one  thousand  eight  hundred 
and  eleven  years  ago. 

I  have  many  interesting  days  in  my  life  to  remember,  but  among 
them  all  there  is  not  one  which  stands  out  as  a  memory  so  utterly, 
strangely  beautiful  and  absorbing  as  that  day  spent  rambling 
through  the  streets  and  ruins  of  a  long,  long  dead  city  warmly 
flooded  with  an  Italian  sun.  It  must  have  been  such  a  gay  and 
brilliant  little  place,  with  its  richly  coloured  and  decorated  houses, 
their  flower-wreathed  red  or  yellow  columns,  their  bright  court- 
yards, their  fountains  and  vines,  the  graceful  temples  and  theatres 
and  villas,  the  great  mountain  behind,  the  blue  Mediterranean  at  its 
feet. 

"  It  was  very  beautiful,"  I  thought  my  little  shadow  told  me. 
'•  The  people  were  so  gay  and  rich.  It  was  not  so  stately  and  mag- 
nificent as  Rome,  but  it  was  so  bright  and  luxurious.  There  were 
so  many  flowers  everywhere,  the  sky  was  always  so  blue  and  the 
sun  so  warm.  We  lived  so  much  out  of  doors,  we  used  to  sit  and 
work  and  take  our  meals  in  the  open  court,  and  the  wine  cups  were 
wreathed  with  flowers,  and  garlands  hung  from  the  columns  and 
were  twined  about  them,  and  we  wore  fresh  garlands  on  our  heads 
— every  one  wore  them  when  there  was  gaiety  and  feasting." 

"  You  were  never  afraid  of  the  oreat  mountain  then,"  I  said, 
and  I  looked  up  at  it  as  it  towered  so  near  us,  dark  and  bare-look- 
ing and  sullen  with  its  cloud  of  smoke  rolling  upward  and  about  its 
summit. 

"  No  one  was  afraid  of  it  then — particularly  not  the  children. 
We  used  to  hear  that,  years  before — when  some  of  us  were  not 
born — there  had  been  a  great  earthquake  which  the  mountain  had 
caused,  but  it  seemed  so  quiet  and   peaceful,  covered  with  beautiful 


108  ONE    WHO  LIVED   LONG,    LONG   AGO 

meadows,  and  the  earthquake  seemed  to  us  to  have  been  so  long 
ago,  that  it  would  have  seemed  only  like  a  legend  if  we  had  not 
been  able  to  see  some  of  the  ruins  it  had  made,  and  the  Forum 
which  was  being  rebuilt.  It  was  not  finished  when  the  great  erup- 
tion came,  which  burned  everything.  When  you  go  into  it  to-day, 
you  will  see  the  unfinished  columns  just  as  the  slaves  left  them 
when  they  turned  and  fled  into  the  darkness  to  try  to  save  their 
lives. 

And  then  there  came  to  my  mind  a  paragraph  I  remembered 
reading  in  Bulwer's  "Last  Days  of  Pompeii." 

"  At  one  of  the  public  edifices  appropriated  to  the  business  of 
the  city,  workmen  were  employed  upon  the  columns,  and  you  heard 
the  noise  of  their  labor  every  now  and  then,  rising  above  the  hum 
of  the  multitude.     The  columns  are  unfinished  to  this  day." 

We  went  into  the  ruins  of  the  Forum — the  Qreat  mart  and 
gathering  place  of  those  ancient  days — and  saw  the  rows  of  incom- 
pleted pillars,  standing  still.  To  one  who  was  not  told  their  story 
they  would  look  as  if  they  had  all  been  broken  smoothly  off  at 
about  the  same  height. 

"It  was  very  busy  and  gay  here  once,"  my  small  shadow 
seemed  to  tell  me.  "  There  were  such  crowds  of  people  coming 
and  going.  They  came  to  meet  each  other  if  they  were  rich  and 
idle,  to  do  all  sorts  of  business,  to  buy  and  sell,  to  saunter  and  look 
on,  to  sit  and  eat  and  drink  and  talk  over  all  that  happened.  The 
magistrates  decided  cases  here.  There  was  the  Temple  of  Jupiter, 
where  the  Senators  met.  The  gfarments  worn  were  so  Qraceful 
and  so  rich.  There  was  so  much  purple  and  gold  and  ornament. 
The  clasps  and  girdles  of  the  rich  ones  sparkled  with  jewels,  and 
they  wore  such  splendid  rings  and  chains.  There  was  so  much 
luxury  and  pleasure  and  the  people  seemed  to  enjoy  themselves  so. 
This  place  used  to  seem  like  a  great  brilliant  fair." 


OXE    WHO  LIVED  LONG,    LONG  AGO  109 


One  hears  so  much  of  the  past  luxuries  and  splendours  of  this 
small  dead  city  that  in  visiting  it  one  wonders  continually  how  this 
luxury  exhibited  itself.  The  streets  are  so  very  narrow  that  an 
ordinary  modern  carriage  could  not  pass  through  them.  In  the 
days  when  people  drove  through  the  narrow  streets  two-wheeled 
chariots  were  used — one  sees  to-day  the  deep  grooves  worn  by  the 
wheels  into  the  stone  of  the  pavement  ;  we  are  told  that  there  were 
numbers  of  such  chariots,  and  that  they  were  very  elegant  and 
elaborate  in  their  artistic  decoration,  but  how  it  would  be  possible 
for  two  to  pass  each  other,  when  the  worn  grooves  seem  to  prove 
there  was  barely  room  for  the  wheels  of  one,  is  a  mystery  which 
appears  unexplained.  Our  guide  could  not  tell  us,  and  as  he 
could  not  I  could  not  imagine  the  answer  my  shadow  might  have 
given. 

And  yet  we  are  told  that  the  streets  were  brilliant  once — 
that  the\-  were  filled  with  richly-attired  people,  jewelled  and  clad 
in  Tyrian  dyes  ;  that  beautiful  women,  gracefully  veiled,  passed 
through  them  followed  by  slaves,  that  the  shops  glittered  with 
wonderful  and  beautiful  things,  that  one  caught  glimpses  of  foun- 
tains and  exquisite  temples  and  triumphal  arches,  that  all  was 
brightness  and  o-race  and  color  and  wealth  of  life.  To-dav  one 
only  sees  the  narrow  streets,  the  broken  columns,  the  fallen  tem- 
ples and  the  ruins  of  the  houses  that  were  their  owners' tombs  1800 
years  ago. 

Though  my  shadow  companion  could  not  make  me  understand 
what  her  answers  might  have  been  to  some  of  the  questions  I 
should  have  liked  to  ask,  and  which  neither  my  imagination  nor  the 
uniformed  guide  could  reply  to,  yet  I  think  her  presence  helped  me 
to  give  some  fancied  life  and  colour  to  the  ruined  houses,  and  made 
them  something  as  they  might  have  been  when  they  were  homes. 

Through  street  after  narrow  street  we  walked,  through  houses 


no  ONE    WHO  LIVED  LONG,   LONG   AGO 


and  temples,  through  forums  and  once  sumptuous  baths  and 
theatres.  The  excavations  which  are  made  by  the  government  are 
still  going  on.  The  silent  streets,  the  ruins  themselves  seem  to  be 
kept  swept  and  in  order.  But  for  the  broken  halls  and  columns, 
the  roofless  buildings  left  open  to  the  sunshine,  all  is  so  free  from 
obstacles  and  rubbish  that  one  says  to  one's  self  again  and  again, 
"  Eighteen  centuries  !  eighteen  centuries  since  Pompeiian  feet  trod 
these  stones." 

The  large  streets  are  called  "  Strada,"  the  smaller  ones 
"  Vicolo."  The  Strada  di  Mercurio  (the  Street  of  Mercury),  the 
Strada  della  Fortuna  (the  Street  of  Fortune),  the  Strada  dell' 
Abbondanza  (the  Street  of  Abundance),  the  Strada  delle  Terme 
(Street  of  the  Baths),  Strada  del  Foro  (Street  of  the  Forum),  the 
Vicolo  del  Fauno  (Little  street  of  the  Faun),  Vicolo  del  Balcone 
Pensile  (Street  of  the  Hanging  Balcony). 

These  are  of  course  only  a  few  of  the  names.  All  the  houses 
have  their  names  also,  most  of  them  taken  from  some  statue  or 
painting  which  decorated  them.  Some  of  them  were  given  by  the 
scientific  excavators,  and  were  taken  from  seal  or  signet  ring- 
found   in  the  ruins. 

There  is  the  Casa  di  Apollo  (House  of  Apollo),  the  House  of 
Adonis,  the  House  of  Castor  and  Pollux,  the  House  of  the  Faun, 
the  House  of  the  Little  Fountain,  and  of  the  Great  Fountain,  the 
House  of  the  Tragic  Poet,  the  House  of  Pansa,  the  House  of  Sal- 
lust,  the  House  of  the  Centaur.     They  are  all  names  like  these. 

In  the  present  day  when  a  man  builds  a  house  he  builds  it  solely 
after  his  own  tastes  and  fancies.  His  entrance  hall  is  square,  or 
oblong,  or  irregular,  as  he  pleases;  he  builds  as  many  stories  as  he 
is  inclined  to  mount;  he  places  his  dining-room,  his  bed-room,  and 
library,  just  where  he  thinks  best.  In  other  times  there  seems  to 
have  been   an   idea  that  the  houses  men  lived  in  should  naturally  be 


ONE    WHO   LIVED   LONG,    LONG   AGO  ill 


as  much  alike  as  the  shells  on  the  backs  of  snails  and  tortoises  are 
like  each  other.  In  London  one  sees  rows  and  rows  of  melancholy 
structures  all  exactly  the  same  ;  one  sees  them  in  New  York,  though 
there  they  are  not  smoke-begrimed  all  to  one  hopelessly  dingy  shade. 
And  in  Pompeii  one  passes  from  street  to  street  and  finds  in  all  the 
houses  the  one  plan. 

One  enters  through  a  narrow  passage  the  "  vestibulum,"  which 
leads  one  to  a  court,  which  was  called  "atrium,"  and  which  has  in 
the  centre  a  sort  of  square,  shallow  pool  made  in  the  mosaic  pave- 
ment to  receive  the  rain  water  which  emptied  itself  into  it  from  the 
aperture  in  the  sloping  roof.  This  was  called  the  "  impluvium."  At 
the  opposite  end  of  this  "atrium  "  was  a  room  called  the  "  tablinum," 
and  all  around  it  tiny  rooms  which,  in  modern  days,  would  seem 
scarcely  more  than  closets.  But  it  was  the  centre  court  or  "  peri- 
stylium,"  where  the  people  really  lived,  and  which  I  am  sure  they 
must  have  felt  to  be  truly  their  home.  Surely  they  could  not  have 
spent  much  time  in  the  tiny  rooms,  which  had  no  windows,  and  no 
doors  to  close — only  draperies  to  hang  over  them. 

But  the  "peristyle"  was  open  to  the  sunshine  and  the  blue 
Southern  Italian  sky.  There  was  a  colonnade  around  it,  whose 
columns  were  garlanded  with  flowers.  The  centre  was  a  garden. 
There  was  the  tiny  piscina  with  the  goldfish  ;  there  were  pedestals 
with  vases  of  brilliant  flowers  upon  them  ;  perhaps  there  was  a  foun- 
tain, and  sometimes  a  graceful  statue. 

Around  this  peristyle  there  were  other  tiny  rooms  in  which  the 
people  of  the  house  must  have  slept.  They  used  to  sit  in  the  shade 
of  the  colonnade  and  work  or  receive  their  guests  there. 

I  tried  to  imagine  one  of  these  houses  as  it  was  when  mv  little 
shadow,  with  the  blue-black  hair  and  deep  soft  eyes,  and  the  white 
tunic,  played  in  the  peristylium.  I  tried  to  make  a  picture  of  the 
red  and  yellow  columns,  the  gay  colors,  the  frescoes,  the  rich  drape- 


112  ONE    WHO   LIVED   LONG,    LONG  AGO 

ries,  the  mosaic  pavements,  the  graceful  couches  of  bronze  orna- 
mented with  gold  and  silver,  the  wonderful  sumptuous  stuffs  thrown 
over  them.  But  though  with  the  help  of  what  I  had  heard  and  read 
and  seen  I  could  make  a  sort  of  half  antique  Roman,  half  antique 
Grecian  picture,  I  could  not  find  in  it  very  definite  surroundings  for 
my  little  girl.  What  did  children  do  eighteen  hundred  years  ago  ? 
Does  any  one  really  know  ?  I  think  there  were  no  antique  Pom- 
peiian  dolls  excavated.  I  saw  none  in  the  museum.  But  surely  she 
had  something  of  wood  or  stone  or  some  composition,  which  was 
made  in  the  form  of  a  miniature  child,  and  which  she  could  hold  in 
her  arms  and  sing  to  sleep,  and  dress  when  it  awakened,  in  a  doll's 
tunic  and  sandals  and  girdle,  and  for  whose  head  she  could  twine  a 
tiny  garland  of  flowers.  Ah  !  it  must  have  been  so  even  eighteen 
hundred  and  eleven  years  ago. 

She  had  no  books  to  read ;  even  the  grown-up  people  had 
scarcely  any.  "A  very  small  room,"  we  are  told,  "was  sufficient  to 
contain  the  few  rolls  of  papyrus  which  the  ancients  deemed  a  notable 
collection  of  books."  She  must  have  looked  at  the  frescoes  on  the 
walls,  the  pictured  legends  of  gods  and  goddesses,  and  told  herself 
stories  about  them.  Perhaps  her  mother  told  her  about  them,  too,  and 
perhaps  there  was  some  favorite  slave — a  sort  of  Pompeiian  Uncle 
Remus — who  could  tell  stories  of  goddesses  and  gods,  of  Fauns  and 
Satyrs,  and  of  his  own  country,  from  which  he  had,  perhaps,  been 
taken  as  a  prisoner  of  war. 

For  the  rest  she  had  the  flowers  and  the  goldfish,  it  may  be, 
some  birds,  or  a  pet  dog  with  a  golden  collar. 

"There  was  a  beautiful  sea,  too,"  I  fancied  her  saying.  "It 
was  as  blue  as  the  sky,  and  there  were  ships  coming  and  going 
from  strange  countries.  And  we  loved  the  mountain  then.  It  was 
beautiful,  too.  It  was  covered  with  lovely  soft  green  meadows,  and 
the  most  fertile  vineyards  were  upon  it.      The  grapes  in  them  were 


ONE    WHO   LIVED   LONG,   LONG   AGO  113 


larger  and  more  purple  and  sweeter  than  those  that  grew  anywhere 
else.  Only  at  the  very  top  it  was  sterile,  and  the  earth  was  like 
ashes,  and  the  rocks  were  blackened  as  if  they  had  been  burned. 
Wise  men  who  had  climbed  to  look  at  them  used  to  say  strange 
things  about  them,  and  tell  strange  stories.  They  said  that  it  might 
once  have  been  a  volcano,  one  of  the  mountains  that  are  filled  with 
fire,  and  which  sometimes  spout  forth  flames  and  showers  of  boiling 
water  and  molten  stones.  They  were  stories  which  made  me  afraid, 
but  I  could  not  help  drawing  near  to  listen  when  they  talked  ;  but  I 
did  not  believe  that  there  ever  had  been  a  time  when  our  beautiful 
green  mountain  had  been  so  terrible.  The  children  used  to  talk 
about  it  among  themselves,  and  speak  of  the  soft  grass  and  the  flow- 
ers that  grew  on  it,  and  the  sweet  purple  and  white  grapes  in  the 
vineyards,  and  say  it  must  be  all  a  philosopher's  legend,  and  could 
not  be  true." 

We  went  to  the  wonderful  baths  where  the  rich  and  idle  spent 
the  greater  part  of  their  days  lounging,  talking,  listening  to  the 
reading  of  some  poet,  and  passing  under  the  hands  of  slaves  — 
through  the  luxurious  processes  of  bathing.  We  saw  the  public 
fountains  at  the  ends  of  the  streets,  with  the  grooves  worn  away  in 
the  stone  by  the  many  hands  and  vessels  which  had  rested  there 
when  water  was  drawn.  We  explored  the  Temples  of  the  gods — • 
of  Apollo,  of  Mercury,  of  Jupiter,  of  Hercules,  of  Venus,  of  For- 
tune, and  the  Temple  of  the  Egyptian  goddess  Isis,  through  the 
lips  of  whose  image  an  oracle  was  believed  to  speak. 

"  People  used  to  come  here,"  explained  my  shadow,  "  to  ask  if 
their  voyages  and  ventures  and  other  affairs  would  be  successful. 
It  was  very  wonderful  to  hear  Isis  give  them  the  answers." 

It  must  have  seemed  very  wonderful  then,  but  it  does  not  seem 
so  wonderful  to-day  when  one  is  shown  the  secret  staircase  which 
was  found  among  the  excavations — and  which  was  the  means  the 
8 


114  ONE    WHO  LIVED  LONG,   LONG  AGO 

priests  used  to  make  their  way  to  the  place  behind  the  goddess, 
from  where  their  voices  would  seem  to  come  from  her  oracular 
lips. 

"  But  none  of  the  gods  prophesied  what  was  coming  on  that 
terrible  day,"  I  said.      "  There  was  no  warning." 

We  had  walked  for  hours  through  the  narrow,  sunny,  silent 
streets,  we  had  sat  on  the  steps  of  altars  of  the  ruined  temples,  we 
had  stood  in  the  amphitheatre  where  the  gladiators  fought  with 
wild  beasts  and  with  each  other,  and  where  the  blood  of  criminals 
and  martyrs  flowed  upon  the  sands  of  the  arena  amid  the  applause 
of  these  strange  people,  to  whom  the  agonies  of  despair  and  death 
were  an  amusement. 

All  the  day  I  felt  the  presence  of  the  mountain  brooding  over 
us  and  the  ruins  it  had  made.  It  seemed  such  an  awful,  sullen, 
mysterious  power.  Who  could  tell  what  it  might  do  at  any 
moment  ?  Silent  and  calm  for  centuries,  the  very  cattle  at  one 
time  browsing  on  its  crater,  who  could  have  feared  it  ?  Luxurious 
little  cities  had  clustered  at  its  feet,  homes  and  happiness  and 
pleasure  had  grown  beneath  its  soft  smiling  shadow.  But  here 
one  stranger  from  a  far-away  country  sat  wondering  and  dreaming 
on  the  steps  of  the  altars  of  the  Temple  of  Venus  in  the  ruins  of 
Pompeii. 

As  I  tried  to  imagine  that  strange,  awful  last  day,  I  tried  also 
to  make  quite  real  my  little  slender  shadow  with  the  blue-black 
hair;  I  wanted  to  know  what  she  had  thought  and  felt.  Poor  little 
shadow  with  the  innocent  face  smiling  under  her  light  wreath  of 
flowers. 

"  And  there  was  no  warning,"  I  kept  thinking.  And  this  is 
what  my  imagination  made  her  tell  me. 

"No,  there  was  no  warning.  At  least  there  was  none  we 
could  understand  and  feel  real  fear  of.     We  were   so  sure  of  our 


ONE    WHO   LIVED   LONG,    LONG   AGO  115 

Vesuvius.  We  had  never  doubted  it.  For  some  days  before,  the 
weather  was  very  hot — but  it  was  often  hot.  And  there  were 
heavy  curious  clouds  hovering  about  the  mountain  top — but 
though  we  watched  them  and  spoke  to  each  other  about  them  we 
were  not  afraid.  Clouds  always  gathered  there  when  there  were 
storms.  But  it  was  very  hot  and  the  air  seemed  so  close  and 
heavy.  The  morning  of  that  last  day,  I  felt  languid  when  I  awoke, 
and  I  went  into  the  peristyle  to  see  if  it  would  be  cooler.  But  it 
seemed  even  hotter  there.  The  garlands  were  drooping  and  the 
flowers  hung  their  heads.  They  looked  so  tired  and  thirsty  that  I 
gave  them  some  water.  And  as  I  went  from  one  to  the  other,  I  saw 
that  the  goldfish  in  the  'piscina'  looked  tired  too.  I  went  and 
looked  at  them.  They  were  so  still  that  at  first  I  was  almost  afraid 
they  might  be  dead.  They  scarcely  moved  at  all,  and  seemed  some- 
times to  gasp  for  breath.  While  I  was  watching  them  something 
flew  past  me  and  alighted  at  my  feet.  It  came  so  close  that  I  could 
scarcely  believe  it  was  a  bird.  But  it  was  one — a  pretty  little  bird 
which  seemed  to  have  fallen  frightened  and  exhausted.  Its 
feathers  were  ruffled,  and  it  was  panting  for  breath  and  held  its 
tiny  beak  open.  It  looked  at  me  with  such  timid  bright  eyes  as  if 
it  wanted  me  to  be  kind  and  protect  it.  I  think  it  must  have  flown 
from  the  mountain  and  felt  the  first  stifling  vapors.  But  I  did  not 
think  of  that  then.  It  let  me  stoop  down  and  take  it  in  my  hand 
gently.  It  nestled  down  in  my  palm  as  if  it  felt  comforted  a  little. 
I  smoothed  its  feathers  softly  and  gave  it  some  water.  It  drank 
but  it  would  not  eat,  and  all  the  time  it  looked  at  me  with  its  timid 
bright  eyes  as  if  it  were  asking  me  a  question.  I  did  not  try  to 
keep  it  prisoner,  but  it  would  not  leave  me.  It  seemed  to  like  best 
to  be  in  my  hand.  It  was  with  me  to  the  last.  I  think  all  the 
animals  were  frightened  and  felt  that  something  terrible  was  near. 
My  little  dog  was  restless  and   turned  round  and  round  on   his  bed 


ONE    WHO  LIVED   LONG,    LONG   AGO 


as  if  he  were  afraid  to  lie  clown,  and  again  and  again  he  lifted  his 
head  and  gave  long  doleful  howls. 

"  The  day  got  hotter  and  hotter.  I  tried  to  sleep  in  the  shade 
of  the  colonnade,  and  the  little  bird  nestled  in  the  folds  of  my  tunic 
on  my  breast.  But  we  neither  of  us  slept,  and  it  kept  ruffling  its 
feathers  and  opening  its  beak  as  if  to  get  the  air. 

"And  the  flowers  drooped  so  that  at  last  I  thought  I  would  give 
them  more  water  to  drink.  I  gave  them  all  some  and  went  to  look 
at  the  goldfish  again.  I  was  standing  near  them  when  suddenly  I 
heard  a  strange  rumbling  sound,  and  felt  myself  shaken  as  if  the 
earth  were  trembling  ;  the  fish  were  darting  to  and  fro,  the  water  in 
their  basin  was  agitated,  my  little  dog  ran  cowering  to  me,  and  the 
bird  fluttered  wildly  about  my  head.  I  knew  what  earthquakes 
were,  and  I  guessed  this  was  one  and  turned  to  run  to  find  my 
mother.  But  in  a  moment  there  were  awful  sounds  on  every  side. 
There  was  the  crash  of  falling  walls,  and  roofs  and  pillars,  and  a 
great  darkness  seemed  to  come  from  the  mountain — a  blackness 
lighted  with  deep  burning  red.  I  looked  up  where  the  strange 
clouds  had  been  hovering,  and  there  was  a  great  tree  of  fire  flaming 
to  the  skies.  Its  trunk  was  blackness,  but  its  branches  were  flame. 
Then  an  awful  volume  of  the  blackness  rolled  over  us  and  seemed 
to  swallow  the  city  up.  I  ran  screaming  to  my  mother's  rooms. 
She  met  me  before  I  reached  them,  and  caught  my  hand  in  the 
darkness,  and  we  ran  through  the  falling'  vestibulum  into  the  street. 
It  was  filled  with  shrieking,  flying  people.  On  all  sides  things  were 
falling,  the  air  was  filled  with  stifling  vapors,  and  we  were  smoth- 
ered with  heavy  showers  of  hot  ashes  and  scorched  with  burning 
fragments  of  pumice  stone.  We  could  not  see  and  we  could  not 
breathe  ;  I  could  scarcely  cry  out  when  a  house  or  a  temple 
crumbled  near  me,  or  a  huge  red-hot  boulder  came  flying  from  the 
awful  mountain  and  fell  at  my  feet. 


ONE    WHO   LIVED   LONG,    LONG   AGO  \\~J 


"We  ran  hither  and  thither  in  the  darkness,  not  knowing  where 
to  go ;  we  stumbled  over  crushed  and  dead  bodies,  the  ashes  and 
lapilli  came  thicker  and  thicker.  And  in  the  midst  of  it  I  had  a 
strange  thought  of  the  beautiful  peristylium,  with  the  garlands  and 
statues  and  flowers,  and  the  goldfish  in  the  little  crystal  pool. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  long  we  ran  and  struggled  over  the  ruins 
in  our  way.  It  could  not  have  been  long,  because  the  ashes  came 
so  thickly,  and  there  was  no  air  to  breathe,  but  it  seemed  as  if  we 
ran  to  and  fro  for  hours.  Then  there  came  more  awful  sounds  from 
the  mountain,  more  flames,  more  ashes,  more  stone,  and  what 
seemed  a  scalding  rain.  Boiling  water  was  spouting  forth  with  all 
the  rest,  and  mixed  with  the  ashes  and  molten  stones,  it  fell  upon 
us.  I  could  run  no  more,  and  fell  writhing  on  the  trembling  earth. 
My  mother  would  not  leave  me.  She  struggled  to  raise  me  and 
then  fell  too.  I  only  remember  one  thing  more — that  I  thought 
how  soft  and  green  the  mountain  had  been  only  the  day  before — 
that  I  remembered  the  garlands  again,  and  the  thirsty  flowers 
and  frightened  goldfish,  and  I  wondered  where  the  little  bird  had 
gone." 

This  was  what  I  imagined  she  told  me  in  the  voice  and  lan- 
o-uasfe  of  a  little  Gfirl  of  to-dav\  One  can  imagine  anything  and 
make  it  seem  real  to  oneself — even  the  story  of  a  poor  little  gray 
imaee  in  a  odass  case — all  that  awful  Last  Day  left  to  the  child 
who  had  died  in  Pompeii  eighteen  hundred  and  eleven  years  ago. 


THE     LITTLE     FAUN 


The  boys  and  girls  who  have  seen  many  pictures  will  be  sure  to 
have  seen  somewhere  the  picture  of  a  Faun.  To  those  who 
have  not  chanced  to  see  one  I  will  explain  that  a  Faun  is  a 
strange,  beautiful,  mythical  creature,  half  a  human  being,  half  a 
happy,  lawless,  wild-woodland  thing.  No  one  ever  really  saw  a 
Faun  except  on  canvas  or  in  marble,  but  he  is  generally  represented 
with  a  laughing,  roguish  face,  slightly  pointed  ears,  and  a  quite 
unclothed  body,  the  lower  half  of  which  is  like  that  of  some  slender 
wild  animal,  beinof  covered  with  shaeSTV  hair,  and  havino-  beautiful 
hoofs  instead  of  feet.  This  fio-ure  of  the  imagination  belongs  to  the 
old  classic  days,  when  gods  and  goddesses  were  supposed  to  roam 
about  the  world,  and  have  all  sorts  of  romantic  adventure,  such  as 
one  may  read  of  in  Lempriere's  Classical  Dictionary,  which,  by  the 
way,  I  adored  when  I  was  a  little  girl  at  school,  and  which  I  used 
to  keep  in  a  convenient  corner  of  my  desk,  so  that  I  could  dip  into 
it  and  snatch  a  legend  while  I  was  looking  for  pencils  or  geogra- 
phies. The  Faun  is  supposed  to  be  a  sort  of  wild,  happy  god  of 
woodland  life  and  joys.  At  least  that  is,  I  think,  the  easiest  way 
to  describe  it.  As  there  were  woodland  nymphs  who  were  called 
Dryads,  and  water  nymphs  who  were  called  Naiads,  so  there  were 
Fauns.  There  were  in  the  old  stories  imaginary  creatures  who 
were   called   Satyrs,  but   I    think   in   them   there  was  generally  sup- 


THE  LITTLE  FAUN  in 


posed  to  be  evil  and  ungentleness.  It  is  a  difficult  matter  to  be 
definite  in  describing  the  character  of  things  living  only  in  fancy, 
and  legends,  and  pictures — but  the  Fauns  of  my  imaginings  were  as 
free  from  evil  as  they  were  from  thoughts  ;  they  lived  as  their 
friends  the  trees  and  little  wild  living  things  did,  they  were  happy 
in  the  warm  sunshine,  in  the  cool  rain,  in  the  softness  of  the  thick, 
green  moss,  in  the  damp  fragrance  of  the  earth  and  leaves  after  a 
storm  ;  the  rushing  wind  pleased  them,  the  patter  of  the  raindrops 
on  the  trees,  the  swaying  of  the  branches  and  the  bending  of 
the  grass,  the  light,  the  green  dimness  of  the  forest's  shadow,  the 
sounds  of  the  birds  going  to  sleep  or  awakening,  the  ferns,  the 
bushes.  Everything  that  lived  and  grew  and  was  part  of  Nature 
was  part  of  the  Fauns  too,  and  gave  them  their  wild,  careless,  half- 
human,  hall-animal  joy.  I  have  always  thought  that  it  must  have 
been  a  happy  thing  to  be  a  Faun,  and  I  have  amused  myself  by 
imagining  that,  perhaps,  in  those  old  classic  days,  the  legends  were 
true,  and  that  great  light  happiness,  which  fills  all  one's  mind  and 
body  in  the  spring  when  the  earth  is  awakening  and  breathing  the 
odor  of  greenness  and  freshness  of  things  growing — comes  to  us 
from  some  of  those  Fauns  and  Dryads  of  ages  ago,  and  perhaps  we 
are  a  little  like  them  sometimes  yet.  And  I  have  even  pleased 
myself  by  thinking  I  saw  in  young  human  things  all  joyous  at  being 
alive,  a  something  a  little  like  that  old  joyousness  of  nature  in  a 
troop  of  young  Fauns.  There  is  a  buoyant,  laughing  young  Faun 
who  goes  with  me  everywhere  ;  I  think  there  is  also  one  I  see  every 
day  playing  in  all  sorts  of  weathers,  in  the  one  street  of  the  tiny 
German  village  among  the  hills  and  pine  forests  where  I  am  staying 
now.  But  the  one  I  am  5-oino"  to  tell  you  about  did  not  live  amon? 
mountains  and  forests  and  wild  strawberries  and  flowers  and 
tumbling  streams — he  lived  in  a  small  house  in  a  Washington 
street,  and  I  think  his  mother  was  a  dressmaker. 


120  THE  LITTLE  FAUN 


Poor,  beautiful,  happy  little  Faun.  I  did  not  know  his  name, 
and  I  could  see  no  reason  for  his  being  happy  at  all,  and  yet  I  never 
saw  anything  so  perfectly  full  of  joy  from  morning  until  night. 

Washington  has  been  growing  into  a  very  beautiful  city  during 
the  last  ten  years,  but  when  I  first  went  to  live  there  it  had  one 
great  peculiarity.  In  almost  every  nice  wide  street  one  saw  small 
shabby  cottages  or  tumble-down  shanties  side  by  side  with  the 
largest  and  most  comfortable  houses  there  were  to  be  found  in  the 
citv.  The  effect  was  not  so  beautiful  as  it  was  droll,  but  sometimes 
it  was  the  means  of  showing  one  contrasts  in  life. 

The  house  in  which  I  lived  then  belonged  to  General  Grant,  it 
having  been  presented  to  him  by  some  of  his  friends  and  admirers. 
At  the  corner  of  the  same  side  of  the  street  was  a  larofe  brick  house 
where  General  Garfield  lived  ;  opposite  my  house  there  was  a  small 
row  of  frame  houses  all  occupied  by  colored  people,  and  opposite 
General  Garfield's  corner  was  the  small  brick  house  inhabited  by 
the  dressmaker  whose  little  boy  was  a  Faun. 

I  never  saw  the  dressmaker,  I  only  heard  somehow  that  she 
existed,  and  that  she  was  the  little  Faun's  mother. 

I  think  she  must  have  been  a  poor  dressmaker.  Perhaps  she 
used  to  sit  upstairs  in  some  back  room  and  cut  out  patterns  and  sew 
very  hard  ;  at  least  that  is  the  picture  I  always  made  of  her  when 
I  watched  the  darling  little  Faun,  and  wondered  why  he  was 
uncared-for  and  always  alone.  I  felt  sure  she  must  love  him,  and 
would  have  washed  and  dressed  him  if  she  had  had  time. 

Only  a  few  yards  from  my  front  door  were  two  beautiful,  thick- 
leaved,  full-branched  maple  trees.  When  regular  rows  of  trees 
were  being  planted  in  the  streets,  General  Grant  saved  the  lives  of 
these  two,  which  were  to  have  been  cut  down.  They  were  such 
beautiful  trees.  They  shaded  all  the  house,  and  were  so  intimate 
with  me,  that   each   spring  they  sent  out  longer  and  longer  shoots 


iNi 


V 


hi 


V;      ' 


!    !.'■ 


A    LITTLE    FAUN. 


THE  LITTLE  FAUN  12 


from  their  branches,  until  Boy  and  the  Socialist — who  were  tiny  fel- 
lows then — could  stand  at  the  nursery  windows  and  shake  hands 
with  them. 

These  sociable  branches  were  most  friendly  at  the  nursery  win- 
dows, and  the  windows  of  my  workroom  on  the  third  story.  The 
workroom  was  called  The  Den,  and  it  was  a  very  pretty  room,  and 
its  windows  looked  in  the  most  familiar  manner  into  the  very  nests 
of  the  bird  families  who  built  on  the  tops  of  the  two  trees. 

I  was  very  intimate  with  the  birds — quite  on  visiting  terms. 
They  used  to  perch  on  my  window  ledge  sometimes  and  talk  to 
each  other  about  me,  and  they  quarrelled  with  each  other  without 
the  slightest  embarrassment  as  they  hopped  about  the  branches. 
There  was  a  lady  sparrow  who  lived  in  a  most  fashionable  nest  at 
the  very  top,  and  who  used  to  scold  her  husband  severely  and  chirp 
back  at  him  like  a  vixen  when  he  dared  to  answer  her.  I  think 
she  used  to  accuse  him  of  brinorinor  indigestible  worms  to  his  family, 
and  say  that  a  sparrow  with  the  least  proper  domestic  feeling  would 
provide  more  carefully. 

I  used  to  hold  my  pen  still  to  listen  and  watch.  I  was  always 
listening  and  watching  those  two,  and  it  was  while  being  idle  like 
that  one  day  that  I  caught  my  first  glimpse  of  the  little  Faun.  For 
a  moment  I  lowered  my  eyes  to  a  part  of  the  streets  below  ;  I  could 
see  through  the  branches,  and  there  was  the  tiny  Faun  dancing  on 
the  pavement  before  his  own  small  front  door.  I  did  not  know  he 
was  a  Faun  then — I  only  thought  of  that  afterwards  when  I  had 
seen  him  oftener,  and  knew  more  of  his  bright  gleeful  ways.  At 
that  moment  I  only  saw  the  most  beautiful,  unwashed,  half-clothed 
little  creature  one  could  imagine.  He  was  perhaps  four  or  five 
years  old  ;  he  had  no  hat  and  no  shoes  or  stockings,  indeed  he  had 
on  nothing  but  a  fluttering  little  calico  slip.  Fortunately  it  was  a 
warm    day  in   the  early  summer,  and   besides,  being  a  Faun,  I  dare 


124  THE  LITl'LE  FAUN 


say  he  would  not  have  been  happy  in  ordinary  clothes.  His  way 
of  dancing  was  simply  to  hop  lightly  from  one  foot  to  the  other, 
and  sometimes  turn  round,  keeping  time  to  the  music  of  his  own 
pretty  laughs.  As  he  danced,  his  dingy  calico  slip  fluttered  about, 
and  I  could  see  his  round  bare  limbs  on  which  he  wore  nothing-  at 
all.  I  saw  him  every  day  for  several  weeks,  and  I  never  saw  him 
with  any  more  clothes  on  ;  and  I  do  not  think  I  ever  knew  his  curly 
hair  to  be  brushed,  though  sometimes — very  rarely — I  suspected  he 
had  been  caught  and  washed.  But  his  hair  was  so  curly  that  per- 
haps it  might  have  been  brushed  without  one's  knowing  it.  It  was 
such  pretty  hair,  not  long,  but  such  a  bright  color,  and  all  one  mass 
of  soft  curls  and  rings  which  danced  as  he  danced.  As  for  his  face, 
it  was  the  roundest,  dimpled,  lovely  laughing  one.  It  looked  as  if 
it  knew  of  nothing  else  but  laughing.  That  is  one  reason  I  always 
thought  his  mother  must  have  loved  him,  even  though  she  was  too 
busy  to  take  much  care  of  him.  If  she  had  not  loved  him,  he  would 
not  always  have  been  so  gay. 

But  he  was  always  gay.  I  became  as  accustomed  to  watching 
him  as  I  was  to  watching  the  bird  families  in  my  trees,  indeed,  I 
think  I  began  to  watch  the  birds  less  whenever  the  little  Faun  was 
to  be  seen. 

He  did  not  seem  to  play  with  other  children.  He  was  always 
by  himself,  always  wore  the  one  small  calico  garment,  and  was 
always  enjoying  himself.  I  do  not  remember  ever  having  seen  him 
stand  quite  still.  He  was  nearly  always  dancing  from  one  foot  to 
the  other,  and  talking  and  laughing  to  himself.  I  have  seen  him 
run  out  into  the  street  when  it  rained,  and  dance  about  with  the 
rain-drops  falling  on  his  curls,  just  as  I  am  sure  the  young  Fauns 
must  have  done  in  their  forests  after  the  hot  days.  He  liked  the 
rain  as  he  liked  the  sunshine,  and  I  dare  say  each  drop  on  his  cheeks 
or  his  curls  seemed  like  a  little  kiss. 


THE  LITTLE  FAUX  I  25 


I  am  sure  he  had  no  toys,  and  I  fancy  he  did  not  think  of  want- 
ing them.  He  used  to  amuse  himself  sometimes  with  leaves  and 
pebbles,  and  bits  of  grass.  Perhaps  he  was  more  intimate  than  I 
was  with  the  birds  in  the  maples,  and  when  they  perched  on  the 
dressmaker's  fence  and  twittered,  they  were  telling  him  interesting 
things  only  a  little  Faun  would  understand,  and  which  I  was  too 
stupid  and  human  to  comprehend.  Who  knows  but  that  they  told 
him  stories  of  birds  who  knew  other  birds  who  had  been  in  strange, 
mythical  countries,  where  there  were  forest  glades  where  Fauns 
hid  themselves  still?  At  least  it  is  certain  he  was  never  at  a  loss 
for  amusement,  and  never  tired  of  talking  to  the  sunshine  and  the 
summer  wind,  and  the  rain-drops,  and  the  leaves.  Once  quite  an 
ordinary  adventure  befell  him,  but  I  am  sure  he  not  only  did  not 
mind  it  at  all,  but  he  enjoyed  it  very  much. 

Perhaps  he  had  been  listening  to  the  birds'  stories,  and  had 
thought  he  could  dance  happily  away,  and  find  the  other  little  Fauns 
in  the  deep,  shadowy  forest  glades.  At  any  rate  he  strayed  away 
and  was  lost.  I  don't  know  where  he  went.  I  only  knew  he  had 
been  lost  when  I  looked  out  through  the  branches  and  saw  the  bi«: 
policeman  bringing  him  home. 

The  big  policeman  was  the  one  whose  "beat"  took  in  our  street. 
I  did  not  really  quite  know  him  to  speak  to  myself,  but  I  almost 
knew  him  because  Boy  and  the  Socialist  were  really  on  intimate 
terms  with  him.  Boy  and  the  Socialist  were  so  little  then  that  they 
wore  short  white  kilts  and  large  sashes,  and  socks,  and  long  curly 
hair,  and  it  was  considered  a  most  splendid  and  daring  social  feat  to 
know  and  actually  talk  to  a  policeman.  In  fact  I  believe  this  police- 
man was  not  at  all  ferocious,  and  that  he  even  liked  beautiful  little 
boys  who  regarded  him  with  admiration.  But  it  was  very  grand  to 
know  him  well  enough  to  look  through  the  iron  fence  and  sav,  "  Hal- 
loa,  Mr.    Niel  ;    good   morning!"   when  he  walked  slowly   past,  and 


126  THE  LITTLE  FAUN 


even  on  occasions  to  saunter  out  and  stride  manfully  by  his  side 
engaged  in  sprightly  conversation,  the  short,  plump  legs  in  white 
socks  doing  their  best  to  keep  up  with  the  big,  long  ones,  and  hav- 
ing to  accomplish  it  by  trotting. 

Boy  and  the  Socialist  always  spoke  of  him  reverentially  as  "  Mr. 
Niel,"  and  said  he  was  "such  a  nice  colored  gentleman.  He  talks 
to  us  just  as  if  he  wasn't  a  policeman  at  all."  He  even  conde- 
scended to  let  them  examine  his  club,  and  I  seem  to  have  some 
recollection  of  their  having  discovered  that  it  was  true  that  he  some- 
times carried  a  pistol.  It  was  this  "nice  colored  gentleman  "  who 
found  the  Faun  and  brought  him  home.  I  saw  them  crossing  the 
street  together.  Mr.  Niel  was  very  big  and  muscular,  and  could 
have  managed  a  burglar  or  a  riotous  person  very  easily  ;  but  the 
Faun  had  evidently  not  a  shadow  of  anything  but  friendly  pleasure 
in  his  society.  He  was  holding  Mr.  Niel's  hand  and  dancing  along 
by  his  side,  from  one  foot  to  another,  as  he  always  did.  His  curly 
hair  was  golden  in  the  sun,  he  was  as  dirty  as  a  little  Faun  could  be, 
but  he  was  laughing  and  talking  as  he  hopped,  and  Mr.  Niel  was 
laughing-  too.  It  was  not  such  a  small  thing-  as  being  lost  in  a  big 
city  and  brought  home  in  the  custody  of  a  big  policeman,  that  would 
disturb  or  frighten  a  little  Faun.  He  had  played  with  lions  and 
leopards  in  his  forests  in  those  long-past  ages  when  he  had  been  a 
real  Faun,  and  he  was  not  likely  to  be  afraid  of  a  policeman. 

I  do  not  know  exactly  how  it  was  we  never  had  any  opportunity 
of  knowing  the  little  Faun  any  better.  Perhaps  it  was  because  of 
his  habit  of  amusing  himself  and  not  caring  much  for  the  society  of 
others.  But  once  I  held  him  in  my  arms  for  a  few  minutes,  and  Boy 
and  the  Socialist  played  with  him. 

We  were  just  on  the  point  of  going  away  to  the  seaside,  and  as 
the  weather  was  becoming  warm  I  used  sometimes  to  sit  out  of 
doors  under  the  maples  in  the  evening  while  Boy  and  the  Socialist 


THE  LITTLE  FAUN  \2J 


played  on  the  tiny  square  of  grass  before  the  drawing-room  win- 
dows. 

We  were  there  together  one  even  in  g  when  I  saw  the  little  Faun 
coming  slowly  across  the  street  toward  us.  He  was  not  dancing  as 
usual,  though  he  made  occasional  little  hops  as  he  drew  near,  watch- 
ing us  with  a  sort  of  wistful  look  in  his  eyes.  Perhaps  it  was  because 
as  it  was  such  a  warm  evening  he  thought  it  looked  cool  and  pleasant 
under  the  trees  where  the  mamma,  in  a  thin  white  frock,  watched 
the  two  little  fellows  who  had  such  bright  hair  and  bright  sashes, 
and  who  were  all  in  white,  too. 

I  think  that  must  have  been  it.  He  was  as  unwashed  as  usual 
himself,  and  his  pretty  curls  were  all  tangled,  and  he  had  evidently 
worn  his  one  little  garment  several  days.  But  he  did  not  mind  that, 
of  course,  and  I  am  sure  it  never  came  into  his  mind  that  there  was 
any  difference  between  the  two  pretty  boys  and  his  own  pretty  self. 
They  were  romping,  happy  Fauns  too,  notwithstanding  their  em- 
broidered frocks  and  white  sashes. 

I  watched  him  as  he  came  closer  and  closer,  just  as  some  dear 
little  animal  in  the  woods  might  come  toward  things  he  liked  to 
look  at.  I  did  not  say  anything  at  first  because  I  was  afraid  of 
startling  him,  and  making  him  run  away  as  a  squirrel  or  rabbit 
might. 

But  by  the  time  he  had  reached  the  gate  and  taken  hold  of  it 
and  was  looking  through,  Boy  and  the  Socialist  saw  him,  and 
stopped  their  playing  to  look  at  him. 

It  was  just  as  if  three  large-eyed,  sociable,  little  woodland  crea- 
tures had  met.  They  drew  near  to  each  other,  the  two  pairs  of 
brown  eyes  fixed  on  the  one  pair  of  blue  ones,  with  a  soft,  friendly 
curiosity.  As  for  me,  I  kept  quite  still  and  watched.  I  wanted  so 
much  to  see  how  little  Fauns  made  friends. 

I  do  not  to   this  day  know   quite  how  it  was  done.      There  cer- 


128  THE  LITTLE  FAUN 


tainly  was  not  a  shadow  of  ceremony.  In  a  few  moments  the  gate 
was  opened  and  there  were  some  pretty  joyous  sounds,  and  three 
little  Fauns  were  jumping  and  laughing  together  as  if  they  had 
played  in  the  same  forest  since  they  were  born. 

How  they  enjoyed  themselves,  and  how  pleased  the  two  clean 
little  Fauns  were  with  the  dirty  one.  I  am  sure  they  thought  it 
an  accomplishment  to  be  able  to  have  such  a  dirty  face  and  such 
tangled  hair,  though  indeed  they  were  extremely  talented  them- 
selves in  that  direction.  But  they  shouted  and  jumped  about,  and 
rolled  on  the  square  of  grass,  and  tumbled  over  each  other.  They 
cared  no  more  about  their  frocks  and  sashes  than  young  birds  care 
about  their  feathers. 

But  in  the  midst  of  their  pleasure  an  accident  happened.  They 
had  always  been  under  the  impression  that  the  iron  fence  had  been 
invented  and  put  round  the  grass  simply  that  they  might  have 
something  to  climb  on,  in  fact  they  believed  that  everything  that 
could  be  climbed  on  or  over  was  made  expressly  for  them.  So  of 
course  they  began  to  climb  manfully,  and  their  new  friend  climbed 
too,  and  somehow  he  lost  his  hold  and  fell. 

I  dare  say  the  little  Fauns  of  classic  days  did  not  hurt  them- 
selves when  they  fell,  and  so  they  never  cried,  but  this  poor  little 
man  got  a  very  hard  bump  and  he  broke  out  into  quite  a  splendid 
roar.  I  sprang  from  my  seat  and  ran  to  him  and  picked  him  up  in 
my  arms.  It  was  not  a  serious  hurt  at  all,  and  I  knew  the  great 
cure  for  bumps,  so  I  carried  him  back  to  my  chair  and  held  him  on 
my  knee  and  petted  him,  and  gave  him  soft  little  pats  such  as  I 
always  gave  Boy  and  the  Socialist  when  they  were  in  trouble. 

It  was  then  I  realized  the  difference  between  wild  little  Fauns 
and  tame  ones.  My  own,  too,  were  so  used  to  be  held  and  patted 
that  when  one  took  them  up  they  nestled  down  like  kittens,  but 
holding   this   one    was   like    holding   a   rabbit.      He    did    not   seem 


THE  LITTLE  FAUN  I  29 


afraid,  and  I  could  see  that  he  liked  it,  but  his  small  body  did  not 
seem  to  know  how  to  relax  itself,  and  he  looked  at  me  through,  his 
tears  with  a  sort  of  wondering"  gratefulness,  as  if  he  were  not  used 
to  being  taken  care  of  in  that  way.  I  felt  surer  than  ever  that 
everyone  was  very  busy  at  his  house,  and  had  no  time  to  spare. 

But  the  tears  were  gone  directly.  In  two  minutes  he  was 
laughing  again  and  sitting  on  my  knee  quite  ready  for  more  fun, 
and  the  other  two  were  as  ready  as  he. 

It  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  little  Fauns  were  fond  of  sweet 
things,  and  as  the  dressmaker  was  poor  he  might  not  often  taste 
them;  so  I  took  some  pennies  out  of  my  pocket  and  put  them  in 
his  hand. 

"Would  you  like  to  take  those,"  I  said,  "and  get  some  candy 
at  the  store  round  the  corner  ?  " 

He  did  not  say  anything — indeed,  it  is  rather  curious  that  I 
never  can  remember  anything  he  said,  and  I  tell  myself  it  is  per- 
haps because  he  spoke  only  the  Faun  language,  and  I  did  not 
understand  it.  But  he  laughed  and  looked  happy,  and  the  next 
minute  he  was  out  of  the  ^ate  and  dancino-  across  the  street. 

Boy  and  the  Socialist  did  not  seem  surprised  that  he  had  left 
them.  Squirrels  don't  say  good  bye  to  each  other,  and  they  did 
not  expect  that  he  would  be  more  ceremonious.  They  began  to 
play  together  again. 

But  in  a  few  minutes  the  little  Faun  came  dancing  back.  He 
was  all  sunshine  and  smiles,  and  he  had  a  packet  of  candy  in  his 
hand.  He  had  not  even  opened  it,  and  I  wondered  why.  I  found 
out  directly.  He  made  signs  to  the  two  small  Fauns  inside  the 
gate,  and  they  went  towards  him.  Then  he  opened  his  packet,  and 
held  it  out  to  them  with  smiles.  They  helped  themselves  cheer- 
fully, and  then  the  little  Faun  helped  himself,  and  they  stood  and 
munched  amicably  together.  You  see  because  he  was  a  Faun  he 
9 


130  THE  LITTLE  FAUN 


had  only  sweet,  happy,  joyous  impulses,  and  did  not  know  what 
selfishness  was,  and  he  did  not  think  of  even  opening  his  treasure 
until  he  had  carried  it  back  to  share  it  with  his  little  fellow  Fauns, 
even  though  no  one  expected  for  one  moment  that  he  would  not 
simply  enjoy  it  by  himself. 

The  next  day  we  went  to  the  seaside,  and  I  never  saw  my  little 
Faun  again.  When  we  returned  in  the  autumn  I  did  not  see  him 
dancing  before  his  door  for  several  days,  and  so  I  spoke  to  a 
servant  about  him. 

"Do  you  know  where  the  pretty  little  curly  boy  is"?"  I  asked. 
"  The  one  who  was  always  dancing  from  one  leg  to  the  other." 

"  No,  ma'am,  I  don't,"  was  the  answer.  "  His  mother  was  a 
dressmaker,  and  she  moved  away  in  the  hot  weather.  I  never 
heard  where  they  went." 

I  was  very  sorry.  I  wanted  to  know  my  Faun  better.  I  felt 
sure  he  had  a  sweet,  lovable  nature,  and  I  thought  I  might  do 
things  to  please  him.  I  have  never  forgotten  him,  and  I  often 
wonder  if  he  is  as  happy  now  that  he  is  a  big  boy.  He  must  be  a 
big  fellow  now.  Boy  and  the  Socialist  have  had  time  to  grow  tall, 
and  travel  in  foreign  countries,  and  learn  foreign  languages,  and 
become  enthusiastic  electricians  and  scientists,  and  adorers  of 
Edison,  but  they  remember  the  little  Faun.  Some  day  I  think  I 
shall  try  to  write  his  story.  I  wonder  if  it  will  be  at  all  like  the 
true  one. 


WHAT    USE    IS   A   POET?! 


IT  was  the  Socialist  who  said  it,  and  he  said  it  quite  innocently 
and  with  a  sincere  desire  for  information.  The  Socialist  is 
always  in  search  of  information,  and  he  is  always  "  rising-  to 
remark  "  upon  some  novel  theory  or  problem. 

The  most  interesting  are  usually  propounded  when  we  are 
walking  together.  This  particular  morning  we  were  walking  along 
a  beautiful  country  road,  it  being  a  daily  duty  he  had  charged 
himself  with  to  forcibly  relieve  me  from  the  sad  duties  of  a  sick- 
room. 

It  was  a  very  beautiful  country  road,  and  the  sweet  spring  air 
soothed  and  refreshed  me.  He  looked  so  rosy  and  well,  and  had 
such  coaxing,  comforting  ways.  It  seemed  as  if  the  shadow  of 
illness  or  danger  could  not  even  approach  him. 

We  walked  along,  sometimes  in  the  spring  sunshine,  and  the 
Socialist  marched  on  briskly,  sometimes  with  his  hand  through  my 
arm,  sometimes  with  his  boyish  arm  round  my  waist,  sometimes 
with  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  trim-fitting  coat.  Socialist 
though  he  is,  the  jaunty  close  fit  of  his  coat  is  quite  admirable.  But 
this  may  have  something  to  do  with  the  plump  strength  of  his 
straight  young  body. 

He   seemed   to  be   reflecting  for  a   few   minutes.      He    kept  his 


132  "  WHAT  USE  IS   A    POET?" 

eyes  on  the  road  as  he  walked,  and  quite  suddenly  he  asked  his 
question. 

"  I  wish  you'd  tell  me,  Cherie,  what  is  the  use  of  a  poet? 
What  use  is  he  ?  " 

It  was  rather  a  startling  question  to  me.  Limited  as  my  infor- 
mation is  on  many  subjects  of  vital  interest  to  the  Socialist,  I  try  to 
keep  pace  with  him  in  such  matters  as  my  untrained  feminine 
mind  might  hope  to  grasp.  And  I  will  say  this  for  him,  that  he 
tactfully  endeavors  to  adapt  himself  to  my  limitations  and  not  ask 
me  impossible  "  hard  ones."  Dynamos  he  knows  I  am  not  equal 
to,  horizontal  engines  and  electric  lights  he  is  aware  I  am  not  able 
to  grapple  with,  but  poets  I  might  rise  to  and  give  reliable  opinions 
about.  And,  indeed,  I  always  feel  it  very  sweet  of  him  that  he 
gives  me  nothing  much  more  scientific  and  complex  to  explain  than 
mere  poets  and  things  of  that  sort. 

And  yet  the  question  seemed  rather  difficult  to  answer  just  at 
first. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  a  poet  ?  "  I  repeated  a  little  slowly. 
"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  sweetheart?  " 

"Well,  you  see,"  he  answered  energetically,  "every  man  ought 
to  have  his  use.  When  he  does  a  thin  or  or  makes  a  thin  9-  it  oueht 
to  be  useful  in  some  way.  When  a  man  makes  an  engine,  or 
builds  a  bridge,  or  invents  a  telephone,  you  see  what  it  is  for.  But 
what  is  poetry  for?     What  is  the  use  of  it  ?  " 

His  rosy  cheek  looked  so  round  and  like  a  splendid  baby's 
that  I  could  not  help  smiling  and  putting  a  kiss  on  it  as  I  took  his 
arm. 

"  You  are  the  Electric  boy,  aren't  you?"  I  said.  "  You  belong 
to  the  telephone  age — to  the  Edison- Bell  phonograph  steam-heated 
linotype  century." 

"Yes,  I  do,"  he  answered  exultantly.      "And   I   am  glad  of  it. 


"  WHAT  USE  IS  A    POET V"  1 33 

But  I  want  to  know  about  poets  and  poetry.  Perhaps  it's  because 
I'm  only  a  boy  and  haven't  any  genius,  but  do  you  know  that  some- 
how I  can't  get  interested  when  I  try  to  read  poetry." 

"That's  all  right,"  I  said  cheerfully.  "  Perhaps  you  will  when 
you  are  older.      There  are  so  many  motors  to  attend  to  just  now." 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  And  it  is  so  easy  for  a  boy  to  be  interested 
in  motors." 

"  The  truth  is,"  I  answered,  "  that  this  is  the  Telephone  time,  and 
it  is  tremendously  interesting.  We  are  living  among  such  wonder- 
ful things,  and  they  are  all  so  useful,  that  it  is  quite  natural  to  ask 
what  a  thing  is  'for.'  People  in  other  days  used  to  make  journeys 
to  see  each  other  and  ask  questions,  now  they  can  talk  through  a 
tube  without  leaving  their  rooms  ;  once  people  kept  long-winded 
diaries,  now  they  can  confess  into  a  phonograph  ;  they  used  to  write 
long  business  letters,  now  they  cable  across  the  Atlantic,  or  cross  it 
in  a  few  days,  a  dozen  times  a  year." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Socialist,  "just  think  of  the  fun  I  have  when  we 
go  over  for  the  summer,  and  how  different  it  must  have  been  in  the 
old  days.  I  should  almost  like  to  live  in  the  engine-room,"  with 
rapture. 

I  am  quite  aware  that  he  would.  The  Socialist  is  a  fine  product 
of  the  Telephone  age — and  before  an  engine-room  man  with  a  black 
face — one  who  could  speak  with  the  proper  feeling  of  relationship 
to  boilers  and  "pressure,"  pistons  and  walking  beams,  the  White 
Czar  himself  would  sink  into  nonentity. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  a^e !  "  said  I. 

The  Socialist  gave  me  a  bright  look  of  scrutiny. 

"  Are  you  making  fun  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Not  at  all,"  I  replied.  "The  wonderful,  useful  things  are  of 
use  to  everybody  in  one  way  or  another.  They  bring  the  beautiful 
things  to  everybody.     The  poets  are  better  cared  for,  too.      Think 


134  "WHAT   USE  IS  A    POET?" 

what  beautiful  books  their  beautiful  thoughts  are  printed  in.  Think 
what  beautiful  pictures  often  illustrate  them.  Once  great  poets 
starved  and  wasted  in  antechambers,  sneered  at  by  menials,  for  the 
coming  of  the  great  man  who  might  give  them  a  few  guineas. 
Great  men  wait  for  poets  now,  and  are  pleased  to  speak  with  them 
of  the  work  they  do.  The  Telephone  century  brings  the  greatest 
poets  and  artists,  singers  and  actors,  from  one  far-off  part  of  the 
world  to  the  other,  so  that  everyone  can  know  something  of  them." 

"That's  true,  isn't  it?"  exclaimed  the  Socialist.  I  think  he  had 
been  a  shade  anxious  lest  all  the  merits  of  his  beloved  dynamos 
might  chance  to  fail  to  be  quite  appreciated  by  even  a  gentle, 
unpositive  person  who  was  not  scientific,  and  only  could  be  trusted 
for  definite  information  on  the  subject  of  poets.  But  he  had  been 
quite  safe.  It  would  never  have  occurred  to  me  that  I  could  prove 
to  him  the  use  of  poets  by  decrying  what  was  so  near  his  heart. 

"  A  book  of  travels,"  he  explained,  "  tells  you  things.  Those 
papers  of  Kennan's  on  Siberia,  or  Stanley's  '  Darkest  Africa ' — you 
get  to  know  so  much  when  you  read  them.  But  what  is  the  use  of 
writing  things  in  rhyme  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  something,"  I  said.  "  There  are  poets  and 
poets  who  never  wrote  a  rhyme  in  their  lives,  and  who  never  had  a 
word  of  their  poems  published.  And  sometimes  they  have  been 
the  most  perfect  poets  of  all." 

"  Never  wrote  anything  in  rhyme?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Then  how 
were  they  poets  ?  " 

"  I  can  only  tell  you  my  own  thoughts  about  it,"  I  said.  "  I 
think  a  poet  is  a  person  who  sees  things  in  the  most  beautiful  way, 
and  does  things  in  the  most  beautiful  way,  and  tells  his  thoughts  in 
the  most  beautiful  words.  Even  in  the  telephone  century,  you 
know  there  are  all  sorts  of  troublesome  things  and  tiresome  things, 
and  one  has  often  to  express  things  that  are  difficult.      Now  if  one 


"  WHAT  USE  IS   A    POETP"  135 

can  say  the  commonplace  or  painful  things  in  some  sweet  or  gentle 
way,  one  is  a  sort  of  poet  even  though  one  never  dreams  of  rhyme. 
It  is  always  easiest  and  most  convincing  to  illustrate  with  the  things 
most  familiar  and  near  to  us.  I  can  illustrate  with  poor  Boy  who  is 
so  ill.  Suppose  I  were  to  say  to  him,  '  Yes,  you  are  very  ill.  You 
cannot  use  your  cameras,  or  your  engines,  or  your  bicycle  any  more. 
You  must  lie  still  and  take  medicine  and  peptonoids  all  day  and 
nicrht.  When  vou  travel  to  different  countries  you  will  have  a  doc- 
tor  and  a  trained  nurse  always  with  you,  and  your  medicine-chest 
will  be  in  the  railway  carriage.  I  shall  spend  a  great  deal  of  money 
for  you,  but  I  don't  know  when  you  will  get  well.'  That  would  be 
telling  him  the  truth  in  ugly,  hurting  words.  But  if  I  kneel  by  him 
and  comfort  him,  and  say,  '  Yes,  you  are  ill,  darling  boy,  but  it  only 
makes  us  all  feel  how  much  we  love  you.  And  we  only  live  to  make 
the  days  go  easily  for  you.  Everything  you  would  like  you  shall 
have.  The  doctor  and  the  nurse  are  as  nice  as  they  are  clever. 
We  will  pretend  you  are  the  Prince  Imperial,  and  we  are  your 
court  and  have  to  fly  to  do  your  bidding.  You  shall  go  to  any 
country  you  like  and  that  agrees  with  you,  and  every  country  shall 
give  its  very  nicest  things  to  help  and  amuse  you.'  When  I  tell  him 
the  truth  in  that  way  he  is  soothed  instead  of  hurt,  and  his  illness 
even  seems  to  have  a  pleasant  side." 

"  Yes,  dearest,"  said  the  Socialist,  holding  my  arm  close. 

"  And  that  is  what  the  poet  does,"  I  said  after  a  few  seconds. 
"That  is  the  use  of  a  poet.  When  trouble  is  harsh  he  tries  to  find 
something  in  it  that  is  gentle  ;  if  there  is  nothing  gentle  in  it,  per- 
haps he  is  able  to  tell  us  how  it  may  teach  us  courage  and  patience, 
and  help  us  to  understand  the  things  that  hurt  others.  Then  he 
tells  us  a  great,  beautiful  truth  in  such  a  way  that  in  spite  of  our- 
selves we  remember  it.  It  may  seem  a  funny  thing  to  say,  but 
there  is  a  very  simple   ancient  poet  who  is  not  exactly  considered  a 


136  "  WHAT   USE  IS  A    POETP" 

poet,  who  will  still  help  me  to  tell  you  one  thing"  I  mean.  Her 
name  was  Mother  Goose,  and  she  is  one  of  the  most  celebrated 
persons  in  the  world.      Who  do  you  suppose  ever  forgets — 

"  Little  boy  blue,  come  blow  your  horn, 
The  sheep's  in  the  meadow,  the  cow's  in  the  corn. 
Is  that  the  way  to  mind  your  sheep, 
Under  the  haystack  fast  asleep  ?  " 

How  the  Socialist  laughed  and  hugo-ed  my  arm  ! 

"  No,"  he  said.  "Nobody  forgets  that — even  in  the  telephone 
century." 

"Certainly  not,"  I  said.  "And  why  not?  I  believe  it  is  be- 
cause of  the  jingle  of  the  rhyme.  I  don't  think  millions  of  children 
would  have  remembered  it  if  it  had  only  been  written  like  this : 
Blow  your  trumpet,  little  boy  dressed  in  blue.  You  are  not  mind- 
ing your  sheep.  You  are  fast  asleep,  and  the  sheep  and  cows  have 
o-ot  into  the  corn  and  the  meadow." 

"  Of  course  they  wouldn't,"  laughed  the  Socialist. 

"I  am  certain  of  it,"  I  answered,  laughing  too.  "And  the  poets 
found  out  that  when  they  put  their  thoughts  into  music  which  was 
not  merely  jingle  they  would  somehow  return  to  people's  minds 
because  of  the  melody,  and  the  great  thoughts  would  be  remem- 
bered and  do  their  work  better.  Now  listen  to  this.  Any  boy  who 
thinks  and  feels  can  understand  it  and   see  that  it  is  splendid  and 

real — 

"  Tell  me  not  in  mournful  numbers 

Life  is  but  an  empty  dream, 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

"  Life  is  real — life  is  earnest, 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal  ; 
'Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest,' 
Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul." 


"WHAT   USE  IS   A    POETr"  1 37 

"  I  am  not  going  to  repeat  a  lot  of  poetry  to  you,  because  you 
will  get  the  most  good  out  of  it  when  you  care  to  read  it  and  think 
over  it  for  yourself.  But  that  means  something,  doesn't  it  ?  It  isn't 
only  rhyming  sound." 

"Yes,  it  means  something,"  answered  the  Socialist,  with  bright 
eyes.      "  Who  wrote  it  ?  " 

"Longfellow.  And  it  is  called  'A  Psalm  of  Life.'  It  is  a 
beautiful  thought  put  into  musical  words — and  you  know  when  you 
come  to  think  it  over,  it  is  as  energetic  and  practical  in  one  way  as 
almost  anything  in  the  telephone  century.  The  last  verse  is  full  of 
bravery  and  force.      It  goes  like  this — 

'  Let  us  then  be  up  and  doing, 
With  a  heart  for  any  fate, 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 
Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. ' 

"  An  electric  boy  can  comprehend  all  that.  Edison  and  Bell 
and  the  rest  have  always  been  '  up  and  doing.'  Men  who  make 
great  inventions  have  to  have  hearts  '  for  any  fate,'  and  the  more 
you  read  of  their  lives  the  more  you  see  how  they  had  '  to  labor 
and  to  wait.'  I  dare  say  some  of  them  have  often  remembered 
those  lines.  You  see  that  is  'the  use  of  a  poet;'  his  strongest,  most 
beautiful  thoughts  have  something  in  them  that  may  be  a  sort  of 
help  even  for  the  people  whose  lives  seem  all  prose.  Perhaps  the 
finest  poetry  has  to  be  first  the  reallest  prose.  Then  it  can  come 
home  to  everybody." 

"  Well,  even  I  can  understand  that  '  Psalm  of  Life,'  "  he  said, 
"  and   of  course   I   am  only   a  boy." 

"Then  you  know  the  use  of  the  poet,"  I  said.  "And  that 
reminds  me  of  something  a  great  English  statesman  once  said  to 
me   about  you.      He  was  a  very  great   statesman,   whose   name   is 


138  "  WHAT   USE  IS  A    POET?" 

known  all  over  the  world.  You  know  who  he  was,  and  that  I  met 
him  at  a  lunch  party  at  a  villa  near  Florence." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know,"  he  said.  "  And  I  should  like  to  ask  him 
about  socialism,  but  of  course  he  must  be  too  busy  to  have  time  for 
boys." 

"  He  finds  time  for  everything.  He  sat  next  to  me  at  lunch, 
and  he  said  to  me,  'What  are  you  doing  with  the  Socialist?' 
(Though  he  did  not  call  you  that.)  '  What  are  you  letting  him 
learn  ?  ' 

"'  Just  now,'  I  answered,  '  he  is  learning  French  principally,  and 
as  much  Italian  as  he  can  pick  up  without  a  grammar.' 

"  'Well,'   he  said,  '  don't  give  him  too  many  modern  languages.' 

"'But  don't  you  think  they  are  very  useful  when  a  man  has 
his  career  to  make  ?  '   I  asked. 

"  '  Yes,'  he  replied,  '  useful.  They  are  excellent  tools  for  work, 
but  a  man  needs  something  more  than  the  things  that  are  merely 
useful.  I  hold  he  should  be  given  the  ability  to  understand  and 
appreciate  the  old  classic  wonders  which  will  help  him  to  make  his 
mind  beautiful  and  develop  its  poetic  powers.  Wre  are  too  utilita- 
rian in  these  days.  I  can't  have  any  mistakes  made  in  the  training 
of  the  Socialist.  Let  him  learn  his  modern  lang-ua^es,  but  give 
him  the  classics  too.     He  must  not  be  altogether  utilitarian.' 

"  He  was  a  great  man  and  a  wonderful  one,  but  you  see  he  saw 
'  the  use  of  a  poet.'  " 

The  Socialist  is  a  very  fortunate  person.  He  has  many  gifts, 
but  I  think  perhaps  his  choicest  possession  is  a  charming  little  habit 
of  saying  pretty  things. 

"A  fascinating  young  humbug,"  I  heard  some  one  who  is  very 
fond  of  him  say  not  long  ago.  "  He  has  the  trick  of  saying  things 
just  as  it  is  most  delightful  to  hear  them." 

But   I,  who   have  been  quite   intimate  with  him   since   his  birth, 


"  WHAT  USE  /S   A   POET?"  1 39 


have  a  theory  that  he  is  not  really  a  humbug  at  all,  but  that  he  has 
the  luck  to  think  pleasant  things,  and  the  power  to  say  frankly  and 
prettily  what  he  thinks.     And  what  luck  that  is  ! 

He  put  his  arm  around  my  waist  and  looked  up  at  me  with  his 
most  dimpled  smilingness. 

"Yes,  cherie,"  he  said,  "thank  you  for  explaining  it  to  me.  I 
understand  what  you  mean.  I  think  I  see  the  use  of  a  poet.  And 
I  know  what  a  poet  is.     You  are  a  poet." 

I  considered  this  quite  a  triumph  of  lovable  courtliness  even  for 
him. 

"I  should  like  to  be,"  I  answered,  "even  if  I  couldn't  write 
poetry." 

"So  should  I,"  he  said,  "though  I  am  only  a  boy.  I  can  try  to 
be." 

"  We  will  both  try,"  I  said. 


THE    BOY  WHO    BECAME  A 
SOCIALIST 


The  room  in  which  I  work  in  my  house  in  London  is  called 
the  Japanese  room.  It  is  called  so  because  all  the  furniture 
and  decorations  are  Japanese.  But  there  are  two  very 
un-Japanese  decorations.  They  are  the  portraits  of  two  boys,  who 
watch  me  all  the  time.  One,  who  is  about  fourteen,  stands  with 
his  hands  in  his  coat  pockets  as  if  he  were  perhaps  looking  at  a 
cricket  match  or  a  base-ball  game  ;  the  other  is  about  twelve,  and 
is  leaning  against  an  old  carved  oak  cabinet.  This  last  one  is  The 
Socialist.  You  would  never  imagine  it  when  you  looked  at  his 
picture.  He  has  such  a  round,  laughing  face,  and  he  wears  a 
quaint  costume  with  a  long  pointed  vest,  lace  ruffles,  and  paste 
knee  and  shoe  buckles,  and  a  velvet  coat — not  at  all  what  you 
would  expect  of  a  person  with  Socialistic  views,  and,  in  fact,  it  is 
not  The  Socialist's  usual  costume.  It  was  one  he  wore  when  he 
sang  a  quaint  song  at  a  charity  concert,  and  it  was  so  becoming  to 
his  plump  young  body  that  I  wanted  a  picture  of  him  in  it.  And 
yet,  notwithstanding  his  round,  dimpled,  boy  face,  and  his  velvet 
coat,  and  lace  ruffles,  and  his  brilliant  paste  buckles,  it  is  he  who  is 
The  Socialist. 

It  was  in   London  at  the   beo-inningr  of  the   last  season   that  I 


THE  BOY   WHO  BECAME  A    SOCIALIST  141 


found  this  out.  I  had  not  been  aware  of  it  myself  before.  He 
came  into  my  room  one  morning,  and  the  moment  he  entered  I 
knew  that  he  was  filled  to  the  brim  with  some  new  exciting  idea 
which  he  must  talk  about.  I  always  know  when  he  is  in  that  con- 
dition because  his  face  looks  rounder  and  rosier  than  ever,  and 
such  a  lot  of  queer  little  dimples  dance  about  his  month. 

"  Dearest,"  he  said,  "  I  am  a  Socialist.  I  just  wanted  to  tell  you 
I  am  a  Socialist,"  and  he  thrust  his  hands  into  the  very  bottom  of 
the  pockets  of  his  little  red  and  black  blazer  and  sat  down  firmly  on 
the  nearest  chair. 

It  was  perhaps  a  little  sudden,  but  then  I  am  never  surprised  at 
anything  The  Socialist  does.  I  have  known  him  long  enough  to  be 
quite  accustomed  to  the  cheerful  activity  of  his  mind.  So  I  only 
smiled  and  looked  interested —as  I  felt. 

"  Are  you,  dear  ?  "  I  answered.      "  When  did  it  begin  ?  " 

"Well,  you  see,"  he  explained,  delight  and  eagerness  making 
quite  an  illumination  of  him,  "I  have  been  reading  the  most  beauti- 
ful book.  It  is  the  most  beautiful  book  I  ever  read  in  all  my  life. 
It  is  by  Edward  Bellamy,  and  it  is  called  '  Looking  Backward.'  I 
have  not  quite  finished  it,  and  the  only  thing  is,  I  am  so  afraid  it 
will  turn  out  at  the  end  to  be  only  a  dream.  I  want  it  to  seem  as  if 
it  were  quite  true." 

This  interested  me.  I  had  read  the  book  myself,  and  I  thought 
I  should  very  much  like  to  hear  how  it  had  impressed  a  sturdy 
twelve-year-old  Socialist  with  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  a  tennis 
jacket. 

It  is  always  interesting  to  know  what  boys  and  girls  think  of 
great  problems — if  they  think  naturally  and  through  simple  spon- 
taneous interest.  They  have  all  of  life  before  them  ;  they  have  the 
courage  and  hope  that  can  believe  and  plan  things,  and  they  have 
the  years  in  which  to  do  the  best  things  to  develop   plans.     It  was 


142  THE  BOY   WHO  BECAME  A    SOCIALIST 

quite  exciting  to  look  at  The  Socialist,  with  his  glowing  face  and 
his  strong  little  clenched  boy's  hands. 

"And  the  book  made  you  a  Socialist?"  I  said.  "What  sort  of 
a  Socialist  ?  " 

He  was  so  full  of  his  subject  that  he  could  not  sit  still.  He  is 
never  a  very  still  boy.  He  jumped  up  and  began  to  walk  up  and 
down  the  room,  talking  as  he  walked,  and  making  the  most  ani- 
mated gestures. 

"  The  sort  that  could  help  to  make  the  kind  of  world  there  is  in 
that  book,"  he  said.  "  It  made  me  so  excited  to  read  it.  Why,  if  it 
were  true,  there  would  be  no  more  wrong  or  injustice,  or  poverty 
or  suffering — there  would  be  no  more  beggars,  or  tyrants  or  idle 
people — just  think  of  that !  And  every  man  would  have  his  own 
work  to  do,  and  he  would  do  it.  Oh,  why  can't  it  be  true  ?  I  can't 
bear  it  to  be  only  a  dream." 

One  of  the  charms  of  The  Socialist  is  that  he  is  so  tremendously 
in  earnest  about  everything.  He  rides  his  bicycle,  plays  cricket  or 
tennis  or  football,  rows  and  dances,  or  shouts  over  a  base-ball  game, 
all  with  equal  ardor.  He  is  a  boy  with  an  athletic  appetite,  and  a 
strong,  young,  growing  body — that  is  the  thing  that  adds  to  one's 
interest  in  his  strong,  young,  growing  heart  and  mind. 

"  It  would  be  a  beautiful  dream,  in  which  all  sorrow  and  wron^ 
could  be  put  an  end  to  for  ever,  wouldn't  it  ?  "   I  said. 

He  wheeled  about  and  made  an  animated  gesture  with  his 
clenched  hand. 

"  But  it  ought  not  to  be  only  a  dream,"  he  said.  "  It  ought  to 
be  real." 

"Well,"  I  answered,  "  of  course  all  great  changes  and  improve- 
ments take  time,  and  perhaps  even  if  the  ends  were  accom- 
plished, it  would  not  be  exactly  in  the  '  Looking  Backward '  way — 
but  it  wouldn't  matter  how  it  was  done.     And  I  should  think   the 


THE  BOY    WHO  BECAME  A    SOCIALIST  143 

best  beginning  would  be  that  all  the  people  who  read  the  book — ■ 
boys  especially,  because  they  have  all  their  years  before  them — ■ 
should  make  up  their  minds  each  to  do  his  part  of  trying  to  make 
it  real." 

That  delighted  him.  He  looked  more  aglow  than  ever,  and 
all  his  dear  little  dimples  showed  themselves  at  once. 

"That  would  do  it,"  he  exclaimed,  walking  up  and  down  with 
new  excitement.  "And  wouldn't  I  like  to  try!  It  would  take 
years  and  years,  I  dare  say — it  might  not  come  till  after  my  life  was 
over — but  oh  !  if  I  could  be  just  one  of  those  who  helped  to  make  it 
not  a  dream." 

"Then  my  life  would  have  been  worth  living,"  I  said,  "because 
I  should  have  been  the  mother  of  one  of  those  who  helped  to  make 
it  not  a  dream.      Sit  down  and  let  us  talk  it  over." 

Then  he  sat  down  and  we  talked  it  over,  and  it  was  delightful. 
It  would  have  been  very  interesting  to  have  taken  down  The 
Socialist's  remarks  just  as  he  made  them  in  his  vigorous,  unadorned, 
boy  English.  He  wanted  all  the  imperfect  laws  repealed,  all  the 
rich  people  to  be  generous,  all  the  poor  ones  to  be  given  work  and 
good  pay,  all  the  weak  ones  to  be  taken  care  of  and  helped  to 
become  strong,  everything  that  was  unjust  to  be  righted,  all  that 
was  bad  to  be  changed  into  eood. 

"  Only  how  are  we  to  do  it  ?  "  he  said.  "  Such  a  lot  of  things 
would  have  to  be  changed,  wouldn't  they  ?  " 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  you  see  all  the  great  changes  for  the  better 
are  always  made  because  a  number  of  people  make  up  their  minds 
singly,  one  by  one,  you  know — that  they  ought  to  be  brought 
about.  It  isn't  a  hundred  thousand  people  who  do  a  thing  all  at 
once  in  a  mass — in  the  first  place  a  hundred  thousand  individual 
minds  have  to  work  for  themselves  singly.  You  know  a  lot  of  boys 
— how  would  it  do  to  have  a  Looking  Forward  Club,  and  let   every 


144  THE  BOY   WHO  BECAME  A    SOCIALIST 

boy  be  determined  to  be  the  fairest,  most  straightforward,  manly* 
reasonable  fellow  he  can,  not  only  to  the  club  and  himself,  but  to 
anyone  he  has  to  deal  with?     That  would  be  a  beginning." 

"  So   it  would,"  agreed  The   Socialist. 

"  Boys  have  so  much  to  give  each  other,"  I  said,  "  if  they 
only  thought  of  it.  You  know  I  have  had  two  boys,  so  I  know 
how  interesting  their  lives  are.  They  are  finding  out  things  and 
having  new  experiences  every  day  if  they  have  quick  minds.  For 
instance,  there  is  your  friend  Sam,  whom  I  have  such  a  respect  for. 
He  has  always  had  to  take  care  of  himself.  He  has  sold  news- 
papers and  blacked  boots  all  his  little  boy  years  in  the  streets  of  a 
big  city.  Sam  is  all  right,  you  know.  He  has  a  good  heart  and 
kind  feelings,  and  it  did  them  no  harm  that  he  was  rasped  and 
bare-footed,  and  even  sometimes  hungry,  and  think  how  much  he 
must  have  learned  about  business,  and  self-dependence,  and  how 
much  he  must  have  seen  to  touch  his  heart,  and  fill  him  with  pity 
and  the  wish  to  be  able  to  help  and  make  things  better.  Sam  is 
the  beoqnnino-  of  an  energetic  man  with  his  mind  all  alive.  And 
you  are  the  beginning  of  another,  I  hope,  and  you  have  lived  in  an 
entirely  different  way,  and  so  each  one  of  you  must  have  so  much 
to  tell  the  other.  Sam  has  watched  base-ball  games,  I  have  no 
doubt ;  you  have  seen  great  cricket  matches  at  Lord's.  Sam  has 
taken  long  tramps  from  one  city  to  another  to  sell  his  papers  ;  you 
have  crossed  the  Atlantic  in  a  big  steamer  year  after  year,  and  have 
been  on  familiar  terms  with  sailors  and  engineers.  Sam  has  sold 
papers  at  inaugurations  ;  you  have  watched  the  kings  and  queens, 
and  princes  and  princesses,  and  all  the  grand  pageant  of  the  Jubilee. 
Sam  knows  how  to  manage  a  boot-black  business  and  understands 
the  language  of  the  boys  who  take  care  of  themselves  ;  you  can 
speak  French  and  understand  Italian.  Sam  knows  about  '  conven- 
tions ; '   you  know  about  the  carnival  in  Italy,  and  have  driven   with 


THE  BOY    WHO   BECAME  A    SOCIALIST  1 45 

your  carriage  buried  in  bouquets  in  the  Flower  Corso,  and  have 
thrown  coriandoli  and  laughed  at  the  mascherati  and  danced  at  the 
oreat  vesflone  ball.  Sam  has  talked  to  keen,  clever  American 
politicians;  you  know  about  world-renowned  English  statesmen. 
Between  you  two  boys  it  appears  to  me  you  have  a  great  part  of  the 
world  and  the  most  interesting  sides  of  life  to  discuss  and  compare 
notes  about.  I  really  think,  you  know,  that  any  one  listening  while 
you  talked  and  told  each  other  things  might  gain  quite  a  respectable 
education.  And  think  what  one  might  gain  fr0m  a  number  of  bovs 
all  with  different  lives  and  different  views." 

'•Only,"  said  The  Socialist,  "sometimes  a  boy  can't  express 
himself." 

"That  is  what  you  would  have  to  think  of  in  the  most  practical 
way,"  I  answered.  "  Some  boys  chance  to  have  words,  and  some 
are,  perhaps,  not  ready  with  them.  If  you  are  a  good  Socialist, 
you  must  remember  that  gifts  are  only  workman's  tools.  The  boy 
without  words  may  have  something  else — some  thoughts  and  views 
that  are  worth  ever  so  much  more.  You  must  not  laugh  or  treat 
him  lightly  if  he  speaks  badly.  See  if  you  can't  lend  him  your 
tools  in  some  way." 

The  Socialist  has  words,  and  he  used  them  in  his  most  delight- 
ful manner.  We  were  quite  happy  together.  We  disposed  of 
almost  all  the  problems  of  the  day  in  about  an  hour,  and  we  did  not 
leave  a  wrong  that  was  not  uprooted. 

Darling  Socialist,  he  is  so  energetic. 

"  I  should  like  to  begin  this  very  day,"  he  said,  walking  up  and 
down  with  his  fists  in  the  pockets  of  the  red  and  black  blazer. 

He  might  in  a  small  way,  I  said. 

He  turned  to  look  at  me. 

"  Are  you  going  to  laugh  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Far  from  it,"  I  answered,  though  I  confess  I  was  smiling  a  little, 
10 


146  THE  BOY    WHO   BECAME  A    SOCIALIST 

but  then  I  am  always  smiling-  more  or  less  when  I  talk  with  The 
Socialist. 

"  One  always  has  to  begin  with  the  little  things,  and  I  was 
thinking  of  something  that  would  be  a  part  of  the  big  scheme  at  all 
events.  You  see  one  of  the  points  is  that  every  one  is  to  do  his 
own  work  and  not  leave  any  of  it  for  the  others  to  do.  Now  sup- 
pose there  was  a  boy — " 

The  Socialist  dimpled  and  gave  a  dramatic  little  tap  to  the 
breast  of  the  gay  blazer. 

"Well,"  I  continued,  "suppose  he  had  a  habit  of  leaving  things 
on  the  chairs  and  tables — tennis  rackets  and  cricket  bats  in  the  hall, 
books  and  hats  and  papers  anywhere  they  dropped.  Of  course 
somebody  else  who  had  something  else  to  do  would  have  to  pick 
them  up  and  put  them  away,  and  of  course  that  would  take  the  time 
that  belonged  fairly  to  their  other  work — and  it  would  not  be  fair 
or  Socialistic.  You  see  the  point  is  that  if  you  are  a  good  Socialist 
you  must  not  leave  your  work  to  be  done  by  someone  else.  Isn't 
that  true  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  The  Socialist,  quite  beaming  over  the  idea  and 
laughing  that  dear  little  laugh  which  to  this  day  brings  back  to  me 
the  years  when  he  was  almost  a  baby,  with  a  lot  of  curly  bright  hair 
and  a  face  that  laughed  all  the  time,  and  everyone  laughed  back  at. 
"  If  you  are  a  good  Socialist,  you  will  hang  up  your  hat  and  not 
leave  your  bat  in  the  hall  or  your  racket  on  the  piano." 

"That  is  the  principle,"  I  answered,  while  he  hugged  me  with 
the  red  and  black  sleeves,  "  though  I  don't  think  Mr.  Bellamy  once 
mentioned  it." 


BIRDIE 


She  was  a  little  girl  I  knew  when  first  I  was  married,  and  I 
shall  always  remember  her  as  she  was  then,  when  she  was 
seven  years  old  and  we  were  intimate  acquaintances.  She 
was  in  fact  at  that  time  the  only  very  intimate  acquaintance  I  had, 
though  I  knew  a  good  many  people.  We  were  about  the  same 
age,  though  it  is  true  I  had  lived  some  time  longer  than  she  had. 
But  there  was  something  considerate  about  Birdie  which  made  me 
feel  that  after  all  they  did  not  make  so  much  difference  between  us 
— those  few  years  which  had  entitled  me  to  be  married.  She  was 
much  more  mature  and  serious  in  some  ways  than  I  was,  but  that 
probably  arose  from  her  greater  experience.  She  was  the  mother 
of  a  most  interesting  family,  and  I  had  not  yet  been  introduced  to 
Boy  and  the  Socialist. 

It  was  indeed  through  a  member  of  her  family  that  we  became 
such  intimate  friends.  It  was  through  Miss  Anna,  who  had  been 
stricken  with  the  measles,  and  through  an  incompleteness  in  the 
matter  of  rash  which  was  supposed  to  be  "  striking  in  "  instead  of 
"coming  out,"  was  giving  her  parent  the  gravest  anxiety. 

Miss  Anna  was  not  a  young  lady,  as  might  at  first  be  supposed. 
She  was  a  large  doll,  and  though  she  looked  young,  she  was  quite 
advanced  in  years — for  a  doll — for  she  was  eighteen  years  old.     She 


1 48  BIRDIE 

had  been  the  doll  of  Birdie's  aunt,  she  was  universally  admired  and 
respected,  and  her  head  was  made  of  china.  The  first  time  I  saw 
her  I  had  driven  out  to  see  Birdie's  mamma  at  the  charming  house 
in  the  country  where  they  lived. 

I  think  that  as  soon  as  1  entered  the  room  I  saw  Miss  Anna, 
and  observed  that  she  was  an  invalid.  She  was  lying"  in  invalid 
state  upon  a  sofa,  her  kid  arms  were  carefully  tucked  away  under 
the  shawl  that  covered  her,  and  her  blue  china  eyes  were  fixed 
rather  staringly  upon  space.  Evidently  she  was  concentrating  all  the 
energies  of  a  gigantic  china  intellect  upon  her  illness  whatever  it 
might  be  (I  have  since  thought  that — probably  fearing  its  effect 
on  her  complexion,  which  was  extremely  red  and  white — she  her- 
self had  determined  that  the  rash  should  not  "  come  out"). 

Having  a  strong  private  affection  for  dolls — (I  find  it  even  in- 
creases with  years.  I  cannot  to-day  pass  the  windows  of  Le  Petit 
Nain  Bleu,  in  the  Boulevard  des  Capucines,  without  loitering) — I 
could  not  help  casting  an  occasional  interested  glance  at  the  sofa 
while  I  talked  to  Birdie's  mamma — and  the  Major  ("The  Major" 
was  Birdie's  papa). 

But  suddenly  my  interest  was  greatly  increased.  The  door 
opened,  and  a  slender  delicate  little  girl  came  in,  and  seeming  to 
think  that  as  the  grown-up  people  were  talking  she  would  be  un- 
noticed, went  with  the  most  serious  and  absorbed  little  face  to  the  sofa. 
She  was  a  very  pretty  child.  I  think  that  I  can  best  explain  what 
she  expressed  to  me  by  using  a  French  word,  and  saying  that  she 
looked  spirituelle.  She  was  very  slight,  and  moved  very  softly,  she 
had  fine  brown  hair,  which  hung  loose,  a  pure  fair  skin,  with  a  faint 
rose-leaf  color,  and  a  delicate  small  face,  with  the  clearest  innocent 
golden-brown  eyes  I  ever  saw. 

All  the  unusualness  and  charm  of  the  small  face  one  could  not 
see  in  the  first  moment.      One  would  always  see  a  pretty,  refined 


BIRDIE  1 49 

child,  but  it  was  only  after  I  knew  her  well  that  I  explained  to 
myself  what  her  unique  charm  was. 

The  clear  eyes  had  the  beauty  of  a  crystal  pool  in  the  deep  for- 
est, a  pool  which  had  never  been  disturbed,  and  had  never  reflected 
any  thin  qt  less  sweet  in  nature  than  sunlight  filtered  through  the 
trees,  and  friendly  little  birds  chirping  as  they  came  to  drink  and 
bathe  their  wings.  They  were  such  happy  eyes,  such  believing 
eyes,  such  childish,  dreaming  eyes — one  loved  them  as  soon  as  she 
lifted  the  long  curled  lashes. 

She  was  busying  herself  so  anxiously  about  the  sofa  that  I 
glanced  questioningly  at  the  Major. 

"Oh,  that  is  Birdie,"  he  said,  with  a  kindly  and  slightly  humor- 
ous smile.      "  Birdie,  come  and  shake  hands  with  Mrs.  Burnett." 

Birdie  crossed  the  room  and  gave  me  her  hand  and  a  sweet  little 
smile. 

I  kept  the  hand  in  mine  and  gave  her  a  smile  in  return,  but  I 
tried  to  make  it  sympathetic,  because  I  recognized  at  once  that  the 
case  of  the  invalid  on  the  sofa  was  not  one  to  trifle  with.  I  saw 
it  in  Birdie's  countenance. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,"  I  said;  "  your  papa  was  talking  to 
me  about  you.  But  I  am  sorry  you  have  illness  in  your  family.  I 
hope  it  is  not  very  serious." 

I  was  not  laughing  at  all — I  would  not  have  laughed  for  worlds 
in  that  serious  little  face.  I  tried  quickly  to  imagine  that  I  was 
seven,  and  that  I  was  right  in  the  midst  of  a  belief  that  my  favorite 
china  child  was  ill,  and  I  knew  it  would  disturb  my  feelings  very 
much  if  I  were  suddenly  called  from  her  bedside  to  shake  hands 
with  a  bride  who  made  light  of  me. 

And  in  one  second  I  saw  in  Birdie's  clear  gold-brown  eyes  a 
look  of  relief  and  appreciation  She  made  friends  with  me  on  the 
spot  without  any  further  preliminaries. 


150  BIRDIE 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  serious,"  said  she,  looking  back  at  the  sofa. 
"  Miss  Anna  has  the  measles  very  badly,  and  you  know  sometimes 
the  measles  turn  out  dreadfully  serious." 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  the  danger  is,  you  know,  if  they  take  the  least 
cold.  If  you  can  just  get  them  through  without  taking  cold  they 
are  all  right ;  but  if  they  catch  cold,  and  it  strikes  in,  it's  the  most 
anxious  thing.    Would  it  disturb  her  if  I  went  and  looked  at  her  ?  " 

"  I  should  be  very  glad  if  you  would  look  at  her,"  said  Birdie. 

I  saw  her  mamma  and  the  Major  glance  at  each  other  as  we  left 
them,  and  the  Major's  humorous  eyes  looked  in  a  very  quiet  way 
more  humorous  than  ever,  but  he  did  not  laugh  at  all.  I  discovered 
afterwards  that  he  never  disturbed  Birdie's  beliefs  and  fancies,  or 
treated  them  with  any  disrespect  which  would  spoil  them  for  her. 

"  You  see  she  is  flushed,"  I  said,  having  looked  at  Miss  Anna. 
"  If  you  keep  her  warm,  and  give  her  hot  things  to  drink,  I  dare  say 
she  will  have  quite  a  beautiful  rash  before  night.  I  had  a  wax  one 
once  who  had  scarlatina,  and  I  think  I  saved  her  life  with  hot  camo- 
mile tea." 

When  I  went  away  Birdie  and  I  were  no  longer  acquaintances, 
but  friends,  and  our  friendship  was  destined  to  be  a  very  interesting 
one. 

At  first  Birdie  lived  in  the  country,  and  I  in  the  town  a  few 
miles  away,  and  during  the  hot  Southern  summer  my  visits  to  her 
home  used  to  be  a  great  relief  to  me.  The  air  was  so  much  cooler 
and  fresher  there,  and  there  were  so  many  tall  trees  and  so  much 
shade.  Her  house  was  built  in  the  midst  of  a  beautiful  grove  of 
pine  and  oak  trees,  and  it  was  chiefly  while  wandering  under  their 
shadows  that  we  had  our  most  interesting  conversations.  It  was 
there  I  found  out  one  of  Birdie's  prettiest  fancies,  which  ended  in 
our  spending  together  one  of  the  most  delightful  mornings  of  my 
life.      It  was  a  lovely  summer  morning,  and  we  were  rambling  about 


liBPIl 


WHAT    ARE    YOU    DOING    THAT    FOR?"    I    ASKED. 


BIRDIE  153 

together,  gathering  a  fiower  or  so  as  we  talked,  or  stopping  to  catch 
a  bird,  or  bending  down  to  examine  some  interesting  little  insect  in 
the  ojass.  I  had  indeed  o-athered  a  good  deal  of  information  on 
various  subjects,  because  "  The  Major,"  who  had  been  a  Confederate 
officer,  had  become  a  Professor  in  a  well-known  Southern  university, 
and  he  and  his  little  daughter,  who  were  great  friends,  were  in  the 
habit  of  exploring  the  woods  in  a  happy  sort  of  way  together,  so 
Birdie  really  knew  many  things  about  birds  and  insects  and  rocks 
and  flowers. 

She  had  been  saying  something  to  me  about  a  certain  kind  of 
tall  swaying  grass  I  admired,  and  she  quietly  stooped,  tied  the  long 
blades  together,  and  bent  them  carefully  down  in  the  part  where 
the  knot  was. 

"  What  are  you  doing  that  for?  "   I  asked. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  answered  quite  simply,  lifting  her  clear  eyes  with  a 
smile,  "it  is  for  the  fairies." 

"  For  the  fairies  ?  "   I  said. 

"  Well,  you  see,"  she  said,  glancing  round  at  the  wind-swept, 
sun-dappled  field  flowers  and  grasses,  "  there  are  so  many  of  them 
here.  They  live  in  the  country,  you  know;  they  don't  like  the  town 
to  live  in — -they  only  go  there  to  see  people  they  are  fond  of. 
Riverside"  (that  was  the  name  of  their  country  house)  "is  full  of 
them,  and  they  are  so  fond  of  swinging.  So  when  I  come  out  I  tie 
the  tops  of  the  long  grasses  and  bend  them  over.  It  makes  a  little 
swing,  you  see." 

I  saw  that  it  did,  and  I  saw,  too,  that  she  had  not  a  shadow  of  a 
doubt  that  it  would  sway  to  and  fro  with  the  light  weight  of  a  fairy 
before  it  had  time  to  wither. 

"I  do  a  great  many  things  for  them,"  she  said.  "  And  they  are 
so  glad,  and  they  do  so  like  me." 

"  Let  us   make   some  more   swings,"  I  said,  kneeling  down  and 


154  BIRDIE 

beginning  to  look  for  the  tallest  grasses.      "  And  tell  me  what  other 
things  you  do.      Do  you  know  them — the  fairies  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  know  them,"  she  answered,  busying  herself  with  another 
swing,  "  but  I  have  never  seen  them.  I  just  do  things  to  make 
them  happy.  You  see  they  are  so  tiny,  tiny,  tiny,  that  it  isn't  easy 
to  see  them.  They  think  we  are  giants,  and  they  are  rather  fright- 
ened of  us  until  they  know  we  are  their  friends,  and  they  run  away 
and  hide  in  flower-cups  and  under  leaves  and  in  the  grass.  They 
know  now  that  I  won't  hurt  them,  so  perhaps  I  may  see  them  some 
day.  I  hope  I  shall.  I  never  do  anything  that  might  make  them 
afraid  of  me,  and  I  am  always  trying  to  please  them." 

"  I  wish  I  could  see  them,"  I  said  ;  "  I  always  did  so  want  to  see 
a  fairy." 

"  They  are  so  pretty  !  "  she  said  "  They  are  dressed  in  clothes 
made  of  flowers,  or  spun  out  of  sparkling  spiders'  webs,  and  they 
have  diamonds  made  of  dew-drops,  and  sometimes  their  ball-dresses 
are  spun  out  of  sunshine  and  moonshine  and  that  light  white  morn- 
ing mist." 

Nothing  could  have  been  sweeter  or  more  perfectly  simple  and 
natural  than  her  happy  sincerity.  She  spoke  of  the  fairies  as  if  she 
were  speaking  of  humming  birds  or  butterflies  or  bees.  I  felt  as  if 
they  might  be  swarming  about  us  at  that  very  minute.  I  tried  to 
pretend  to  myself  that  it  was  true,  and  I  succeeded  pretty  well  too. 
I  always  liked  fairies,  and  it  was  delightful  to  kneel  there  in  the 
warm  scented  long  grass  and  talk  and  act  as  if  they  were  real. 

"  Have  they  balls  and  ball-dresses  ?  "  I  asked.  "  But  of  course 
they  have,  because  I've  read  about  them." 

"  They  are  very  fond  of  balls,"  she  answered.  "They  dance 
every  night  there  is  moonlight.  They  have  asked  Miss  Anna  to 
their  balls — they  are  not  afraid  of  her.  They  think  she  is  a  sort  of 
relation." 


BIRDIE  !:>5 


"  Did  she  ever  go?  "  I  inquired. 

"Well,  no  !  She's  small  compared  with  us,  you  know,  but  she  is 
bio-  compared  to  fairies,  and  1  think  she  was  afraid  she  might  tread 
on  some  of  them,  and  that  would  have  spoiled  all  their  party.  ' 

"  So  it  would,"  I  replied.  "  But  it  would  have  been  nice  if  she 
could  have  gone  and  sat  down  carefully,  and  just  looked  on.  Then 
she  could  have  told  you  about  it.  Now  we  have  made  swings 
enough  ;    what  could  we  do  next  ?  " 

"1  have  just  thought  of  something  very  important,"  said  Birdie. 
'•  There  is  a  full  moon  to-night,  and  they  are  going  to  have  a  grand 
ball  in  the  grove  before  the  house,  and  I  was  going  to  prepare 
their  ball-room  under  the  oak  tree  that  has  a  hollow  in  it.  They 
use  the  hollow  for  a  bed-room  to  take  off  their  things  in,  and  if 
any   of  them   bring  babies  they   want  very   soft   moss  beds  to  lay 

them  on." 

"  Do  they  bring  their  children  sometimes  ?"  I  asked. 

"They  do  just  now.  Roseleaf  and  Blossom  both  have  babies, 
and  fairy  babies  are  so  tiny  they  daren't  leave  them  alone,  because 
the  least  breath  of  wind  might  blow  them  away." 

We  left  the  fairy  swings' and  went  to  the  oak  at  once,  and  began 
to  work  in  the  most  earnest  manner. 

First  we  cleared  away  all  twigs  and  fallen  leaves  and  bits  of 
pebble  from  under  the  tree,  and  made  a  charming  smooth  place  to 
dance  on.  Then  we  made  a  fine  moss  carpet  and  bordered  it  with 
fresh  leaves,  and,  as  a  finishing  touch,  we  made  moss  seats  to  rest 
on  between  the  dances.  The  supper-room  required  much  more 
work.  First  we  had  to  find  a  piece  of  "diamond  stone,"  as  Birdie 
called  it,  which  was  the  right  shape  and  size,  and  white  enough  and 
sparkling  enough  to  make  a  table.  She  said  the  sparkles  were 
really  diamonds,  and  the  fairies  did  not  like  chairs  or  tables  with- 
out diamonds.      The  plates  and  dishes   were  made   ol  small   curled 


156  BIRDIE 

rose  petals,  and  the  cups  for  the  fairy  wine  (which  was  dew,  Birdie 
told  me)  were  the  cups  of  the  tiniest  flowers  we  could  find.  It  was 
very  pretty  when  it  was  all  finished,  and  then  we  prepared  the  bed- 
room in  the  hollow  of  the  tree.  That  was  carpeted  with  leaves 
and  had  moss  beds  and  pillows  for  Roseleaf's  and  Blossom's  babies. 
Indeed,  it  was  all  so  charming  that  it  made  me  wish  to  be  a  fairy 
myself  — but  that  was  nothing  new,  because  I  had  always  wished  I 
was  a  fairy.  Birdie  was  quite  satisfied  when  we  left  the  tree,  and 
on  our  way  back  to  the  house  we  talked  in  the  most  animated  way 
of  what  the  fairies  would  say  when  they  saw  our  preparations  for 
them,  and  what  they  would  do,  and  how  much  they  would  like  us 
for  being  so  friendly. 

It  was  a  charming  morning,  which  I  shall  never  forget.  I  had 
many  charming  mornings  with  Birdie.  Our  friendship  grew  more 
and  more  intimate,  and  at  the  end  of  the  summer  her  family  left 
their  house  in  the  country  and  took  a  house  in  town,  which  was 
just  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  from  mine. 

But  before  that,  I  had  a  delightful  visit  from  Miss  Anna.  Birdie 
and  I  pretended  that  she  was  obliged  to  visit  some  fashionable 
mineral  springs  after  her  measles.  So  I  carried  her  to  my  house 
in  town  and  kept  her  there.  I  think  I  wrote  one  or  two  letters 
from  her  to  her  mother  describing  her  gay  life  at  Montvale 
or  White  Sulphur.  But  the  truth  was  that  Miss  Anna  was  really 
with  me,  and  I  was  making-  her  some  new  things  to  wear.  I 
remember  there  were  some  pocket  handkerchiefs  among  them,  and 
when  she  went  back  to  Riverside  she  was  newly  dressed,  and  her 
mother  found  her  looking  very  well  and  much  improved  by  the 
mineral  waters. 

It  was  after  her  family  had  taken  possession  of  the  town  house 
that  I  nearly  made  a  fatal  error  in  speaking  of  Miss  Anna  to  her 
mother. 


BIRDIE  I  5  7 

Birclie  was  sitting  in  a  swing  in  the  garden  and  I  was  on  a  low 
seat  near  her,  and  in  speaking  of  Miss  Anna's  many  accomplish- 
ments, I  said,  "  She  is  the  nicest  doll  I  ever  knew." 

The  most  startled  expression  came  into  her  sensitive  little  face, 
and  she  put  up  her  hand  as  if  to  stop  me. 

''Oh,  don't,  Mrs.  Burnett!"  she  exclaimed.  "Oh,  please, 
hush  !  Never  say  she  is  a  doll.  I  never  mention  the  word  before 
her.      It  would  hurt  her  feelings  so  !  " 

"  Would  it  really  ?"  I  said.  "  I'm  so  sorry  I  said  it.  She  didn't 
hear  it,  though.      She  is  in  her  room  asleep." 

"  Miss  Anna  doesn't  know  she  is  a  doll,"  said  Birdie.  "She 
never  dreams  it.  She  thinks  she  is  just  like  us,  and  I  could  not 
bear  to  have  her  find  out  that  her  head  is  made  of  china — or  that 
it  seems  like  that  to  people  who  don't  love  her.  It  isn't  china  to 
me — and  neither  are  her  arms  kid — but  then  I'm  her  mother." 

Never  again  was  I  guilty  of  inferring  that  Miss  Anna  was  a 
doll — never  so  Ion  or  as  I  knew  her.  I  should  not  mention  it  now 
only  I  know  she  never  reads  papers,  and  my  dear  little  Birdie, 
who  must  be  a  grown-up  young  lady  by  this  time,  would  under- 
stand how  far  I  am  from  meaning  any  disrespect  to  her  dear  old 
china  memory. 

It  interested  me  very  much  to  read  afterwards  in  one  of  Miss 
Phelps's  books,  of  a  little  girl  who  expressed  exactly  Birdie's  idea, 
and  I  wondered  if  perhaps  Miss  Phelps  had  not  heard  of  it  from  a 
real  child  as  I  did. 

It  was  very  absorbing  when  Boy  was  introduced  to  Birdie  and 
Miss  Anna  and  myself.  Birdie's  experience  as  a  parent  was  very 
useful  to  me  in  my  first  venture,  and  she  had  a  very  good  opinion  of 
Boy,  though  I  think  we  were  both  quite  frank  in  admitting  that  just 
at  first  he  was  more  big  than  exactly  beautiful.  I  went  abroad  the 
next  spring,  and  when  I   kissed   Birdie   for  the  last  time  I  thought 


158  BIRDIE 

we  should  be  intimate  friends  again  in  about  two  years.  I  wrote  a 
story  for  her  while  I  was  away.  She  and  her  brothers  and  sisters 
published  a  little  paper  in  their  own  house  and  she  asked  me 
to  write  them  something.  I  sent  it  to  her  from  London.  It  was 
called  "Behind  the  White  Brick,"  and  has  since  been  published 
with  other  short  stories  in  a  book.  But  since  those  days  chance 
has  placed  us  almost  at  different  ends  of  the  earth. 

Birdie  must  be  by  now  a  grown-up  young  lady.  Remembering 
her  delicate  spirituelle  little  face  and  translucent  golden-brown  eyes, 
I  feel  sure  she  is  fair  to  look  upon  ;  remembering  her  pretty  innocent 
fancies  and  tender  beliefs,  I  am  sure  she  must  be  lovable  and 
sweet.  When  I  think  of  her,  as  I  often  do,  knowing  how  many 
fairy  things  seem  to  fade  away  as  one  grows  from  a  child  to  a 
woman,  I  cannot  help  saying  to  myself  wistfully,"  I  hope  she  still 
believes  in  the  fairies,  and  I  hope — because  she  is  so  gentle  and 
tender — she  sometimes  sees  one." 


THE    TINKER'S   TOM 


I  saw  him  only  twice  and  had  only  short  conversations  with  him, 
but  without  intending  or  knowing-  it  he  crave  me  ideas  of  a 
strange  life  of  which  before  I  knew  nothing,  and  which,  never- 
theless,  hundreds — even  thousands  perhaps — live. 

There  are  single  individuals  who  live  a  life  something  like  it  in 
America,  but  they  are  called  tramps,  and  certainly  do  not  seem  to 
be  usually  people  with  large  families  which  they  carry  with  them 
accompanied  by  pots  and  kettles  and  numberless  children,  which 
give  a  curious  air  of  domesticity  to  their  ramblings. 

But  in  England  they  are  a  distinct  class.  When  you  pass  on  a 
country  road  a  rickety  covered  cart,  loaded  with  shabby,  dilapi- 
dated odds  and  ends,  drawn  by  a  small  donkey  led  by  a  dilapidated 
man  or  woman  and  accompanied  by  a  drove  of  children,  you  say  at 
once,  "Ah,  there  are  some  traveling  tinkers  !  "  And  you  generally 
add,  "And  what  a  lot  of  babies." 

And  when  you  come  during  your  walk  through  country  lanes 
to  a  wearily  grazing  donkey  or  a  very  thin,  rough  horse,  hobbled 
with  a  piece  of  rope  and  cropping  the  grass  by  the  hedges,  then  you 
say,  "Some  tinkers  have  stopped  near  here."  And  before  many 
minutes  you  are  likely  to  find  a  queer  encampment,  boiling  its  bat- 
tered kettle  and  spreading  its  poor  belongings  on  the  roadside 
grass  quite  near  you. 


160  THE  TINKER'S   TOM 


There  is  generally  the  cart  as  a  sort  of  background.  It  has 
been  emptied  and  its  awning  has  been  taken  off  to  make  a  sort  of 
arched  tent.  It  never  seemed  possible  to  me  that  there  could  be 
room  for  more  of  the  tinkers  than  the  tinker  mother  and  the  young- 
est tinker  baby  to  sleep  under  it,  but  it  seemed  possible  to  get  so 
many  things  into  the  cart  itself  when  it  was  loaded,  that  one  could 
not  feel  it  safe  to  limit  the  capacity  of  the  awning.  Ragged  pieces 
of  bed  clothing  and  tattered  bits  of  garments  hang  on  the  bushes  of 
gorse  and  bramble  ;  there  are  battered  cooking  utensils,  and  if  the 
Tinker  has  jobs  in  hand  there  is  fire  and  he  probably  sits  hammer- 
ing by  it. 

The  truth  is,  you  know,  that  there  is  only  one  Tinker  in  the 
family,  and  he  is  the  head  of  it — the  owner  of  the  donkey  or  horse, 
the  cart,  the  awning,  the  worn  looking  woman  with  the  babies, 
the  children  of  all  sizes  and  ages,  the  hungry  dog,  in  fact  the  whole 
paraphernalia. 

But  still  we  always  spoke  of  the  whole  family  as  "tinkers,"  and 
it  seemed  quite  natural  to  say,  "  The  tinker  mother  was  gathering 
mushrooms  with  five  of  the  little  tinkers,"  or  "  I'm  afraid  the  tinker 
baby  has  got  the  whooping  cough,"  or  "  Did  you  notice  what  a 
nice  face  the  tinker  donkey  has  ?  " 

Every  one  who  knows  England,  knows  the  beautiful  country 
roads  and  lanes,  with  the  unending  hawthorn  hedges  and  the  grass- 
covered  banks  they  grow  on,  where  a  footsore  traveler  can  often 
find  such  a  convenient  resting-place.  It  is  under  the  hedges  the 
little  tinkers  are  born,  I  think;  under  the  hedges  they  grow  up, 
under  the  hedges  they  dream  their  childish  dreams  and  think 
their  young  thoughts — but  somehow  I  cannot  help  hoping  that  it  is 
not  under  the  hedges  that  many  of  them  die — though  after  all  I 
could  imagine  a  little  tinker  falling  asleep  softly  for  the  last  time,  if 
the  time  were  a  warm  spring  morning,  and  the  hawthorn   were  in 


THE   TINKER'S   TOM  161 


bloom,  and  the  English  sky  was  blue  and  dappled  with  fleecy  little 
white  clouds  above. 

It  was  under  the  hedges  we  made  the  acquaintance  of  the 
Tinker's  Tom.  We  mean  my  dearest  friend  and  I,  who  during 
that  happy  year  and  the  next  were  always  together. 

We  had  been  in  London  during  the  Jubilee  season,  and  at  the 
end  of  it,  as  I  was  not  well,  my  doctor  had  ordered  me  away  to  the 
Norfolk  or  Suffolk  coast,  where  it  seemed  I  should  find  the  bracine 
air  I  needed. 

Popular  and  populous  English  watering  places  are  not  inter- 
esting or  soothing,  so  after  several  unsatisfactory  pilgrimages  we 
found  at  last  a  dear  belated  little  fishino-  village  in  Suffolk,  where 
there  was  one  street  of  quaint  houses,  a  wonderful  little  hotel  on  a 
cliff,  which  had  been  transformed  from  a  gentleman's  shootine  box 
into  a  pretty  resting  place  for  summer  loiterers,  a  few  small  bay- 
windowed  houses  with  "  Apartments  to  let "  in  the  most  promi- 
nent panes,  a  few  little  shops,  and  a  circulating  library  where  one 
could  buy  toys  and  china  drinking  mugs  inscribed  in  gold  letters 
with  "  A  present  from  South  wold."  One  could  also  get  from  there 
odd  volumes  of  Mrs.  Braddon,  and  works  by  the  author  of  "The 
Heir  of  Redclyffe,"  three  volumes  at  a  time  for  a  sixpence  a  week, 
and  the  name  of  the  proprietress  was,  I  think,  Miss  Chicksby. 

But  even  Southwold  did  not  seem  quite  secluded  enough  for 
me,  so  after  a  week  at  the  wonderful  little  hotel  which  seemed  so 
modern  and  aesthetic  in  the  midst  of  its  quaint  surroundings,  we 
found  a  place  even  more  primitive — an  old  farm  house  in  a  green 
lane  a  few  miles  away — a  veritable  English  farm  house  with  white 
walls  and  a  red  roof,  diamond-paned  windows,  thatched  farm  build- 
ings, and  rambling  farm  yards. 

It  would  be  very  easy  to  write  pages  about  Elm  Farm  and  what 
we  did  there,  of  the  delights  of  the  boys  who  made  hay  and  reaped  and 


1 62  THE   TINKER'S    TOM 


gleaned,  who  vowed  eternal  friendship  with  the  cow  men  and  harvest- 
ers, who  spent  rapturous  hours  tending  sheep  with  the  little  shepherd, 
while  he  sang  ancient  Suffolk  ballads  about  squires  who  loved  milk- 
maids, and  ploughmen  who  loved  ladies;  who  became  gloriously 
intimate  with  the  small  "  pig-minder"  and  his  family,  who  went  "  rab- 
biting "  with  the  farmer,  and  were  so  blissfully  happy  that  when  in  the 
autumn  we  left  Suffolk  to  go  to  Italy,  they  began  their  journey  in 
silence,  leaning  back  in  their  corners  of  the  carriage,  their  arms 
folded,  and  tears  in  their  eyes. 

But  this  sketch  is  to  be  about  the  little  tinker,  and  the  boys  did 
not  know  him. 

In  a  place  such  as  the  one  I  describe,  there  are  only  two  things 
one  can  do  when  one  is  not  writing-  letters  or  reading  the  odd 
volumes  from  the  circulating  library.  One  is  to  drive,  and  the 
other  is  to  walk  through  the  green  lanes,  over  the  country  roads, 
and  through  the  tiny  villages  with  their  queer  irregular  streets  and 
quaint  cottages  in  which  the  small  windows  are  so  bright,  their  bits 
of  white  curtain  so  clean,  and  the  geraniums  and  fuchsias  and 
lobelias  in  the  pots  adorning  them,  so  marvelously  flourishing.  So 
we  drove  and  walked  a  great  deal,  and  though  we  did  not  limit 
ourselves,  and  rambled  over  the  country  generally  as  mere  ex- 
plorers, we  had  naturally  one  or  two  favorite  walks  which  we  took 
again  and  again. 

The  one  we  liked  best  took  us  past  woods  and  along  a  green 
banked  and  hedged  country  road  until  we  reached  a  branching 
lane  which  led  us  to  the  thickly  grassed  top  of  the  line  of  cliffs  by 
the  sea.  A  resting  place  seemed  to  have  been  prepared  there.  At 
the  highest  point  of  the  cliffs  where  one  could  look  far  down  on  the 
prettiest  curve  of  shore,  and  could  see  the  widest  stretch  of  white 
sand  and  sea,  and  the  idlest  floating  gulls,  and  boats  with  white  or 
brown   sails,   there   was   a  little    hollow  curve   in    the  grassy    earth 


THE   TINKER'S    TOM  163 


which  seemed  to  fit  one's  body  like  a  cradle.  One  could  lie  idly 
there  and  watch  the  gulls  and  the  sky,  and  look  down  over  the 
edge  at  the  scattered  flames  of  scarlet,  which  were  clumps  of  vaga- 
bond poppies,  that  in  some  spirit  of  adventure  had  left  their  corn- 
fields and  scrambled  and  clung  to  the  cliffs'   side. 

We  were  eoing-  there  one  morninof,  and  were  walking  along-  the 
country  road,  when  we  saw  a  cavalcade  slowly  approaching  us. 

It  was  not  an  imposing  cavalcade,  but  it  interested  us.  First 
there  was  a  very  small  and  shaky  cart.  It  was  loaded  with  things 
to  sleep  on  and  wear  and  cook  in,  until  one  wondered  how  it  could 
possibly  be  drawn  along  without  falling  over  to  one  side  or  the 
other.  The  things  seemed  principally  bundles  of  rags  and  shabbi- 
ness,  and  the  donkey  who  drew  it  was  very  small,  and  had  a  patient 
ragged  dilapidated  air  herself.  But  she  was  pulling  her  burden 
along  unrebelliously,  and  keeping  her  eye  on  the  baby  donkey 
which  trotted  by  her  side. 

Ot  course  we  knew  she  was  a  tinker's  donkey  and  was  pulling  a 
tinker's  belongings,  as  she  had  probably  been  pulling  them  all 
through  the  summer  through  various  counties.  The  tinker  himself 
was  strolling  by  the  cart  with  a  short  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  on 
the  other  side  was  the  tinker's  wife  pushing  the  remnants  of  a  per- 
ambulator with  two  babies  in  it  and  several  dingy  bundles. 

But  the  chief  feature  of  the  procession  was,  to  my  mind,  the 
person  who  was  holding  the  donkey  by  a  piece  of  rope,  and  boldly 
leading  it  along  by  the  head. 

This  person  might  have  been  four  years  old,  and  must  have 
been  the  third  baby  of  the  tinker,  and  one  would  have  imagined  he 
was  young  enough  to  have  been  in  the  perambulator  if  there  had 
been  room  for  him. 

But  he  plainly  preferred  leading  the  procession  and  the  donkey, 
and  was  not  a  little  proud  of  his  position. 


1 64  THE   TINKERS    TOM 


I  wish  that  I  could  say  he  was  pretty,  but  I  cannot.  He  was 
neither  beautiful  nor  picturesque,  but  I  could  see  he  had  a  bold  and 
adventurous  spirit,  and  I  liked  him  for  it. 

He  had  a  plain  sunburnt  little  face,  and  tangled  light  sunburnt 
hair  which  stuck  through  the  rim  and  crown  of  the  most  dilapidated 
straw  hat.  He  was  dressed  in  a  dingy  and  ragged  frock  which 
had  evidently  descended  to  him  from  some  of  the  other  little 
tinkers  and  which  flopped  about  his  legs  curiously,  but  he  seemed 
to  be  on  good  terms  with  the  donkey,  and  the  donkey  did  not  seem 
to  feel  his  guidance  detrimental  to  her  dignity. 

The  remainder  of  the  procession  consisted  of  the  rest  of  the 
little  tinkers — an  endless  number  of  various  ages  and  sizes  it  seemed 
to  me  ;  scattered  at  irregular  distances  alono-  the  road  behind  the 
cart,  until  the  last  ones  seemed,  as  it  were,  to  melt  into  the  distance. 

"  I  wonder  where  they  will  stop  to-night,"  I  said  to  my  friend; 
'•'  and  where  they  stopped  last,  and  how  many  of  them  can  get 
under  the  awning."  The  very  next  day  we  found  out  where  they 
stopped. 

We  were  going  to  our  cliff  again,  and  as  we  turned  the  corner 
by  the  coppice  into  the  road  we  saw  a  light  blue  smoke  curling  up 
out  of  a  sort  of  dip  or  hollow  by  the  roadside. 

"Oh,"  we  exclaimed,  "  there  are  our  tinkers!"  And  there  they 
were.  The  cart  was  unloaded  and  the  contents  spread  over  the 
grass  and  bushes.  And  one  realized  what  a  wonderful  capacity 
for  holding  things  it  must  have  had.  All  the  hollow  was  occupied. 
The  awning  had  been  made  into  the  usual  tent  of  refuge,  under  it 
the  babies  were  sleeping,  their  mother  was  seated  on  the  ground 
near  them  putting  some  stitches  into  a  ragged  coat,  the  tinker's  fire 
was  lighted  and  beside  it  the  Tinker  himself  was  sitting  mending 
some  old  pot  or  pan  or  kettle. 

Except  the  babies  there  were  no  other  little  tinkers  to  be  seen. 


THE   TINKERS    TOM  16 


It  was  a  beautiful  morning,  and  there  are  probably  plenty  of  amus- 
ing things  for  little  tinkers  to  do  in  fine  weather  in  the  country. 

"Perhaps,"  my  friend  and  I  said  to  each  other  as  we  walked 
along,  "there  are  times  when  it  is  not  so  unpleasant  to  be  a  tinker 
and  have  one's  household  goods  drawn  all  over  England  bv  a 
donkey,  and  live  under  the  hedges." 

We  walked  on  some  distance,  talking  this  over  and  inventing 
plans  by  which  such  a  life  might  be  made  comfortable  as  well  as 
interesting,  and  we  were  just  in  the  midst  of  building  a  tinker's  cart 
with  all  the  conveniences  of  a  Mayfair  bedroom  when  we  saw  on 
the  roadside  grass  two  donkeys  grazing,  one  lying  down,  the  other 
standing  up,  and  at  a  little  distance  a  small  boy  sitting  under  the 
hedge  guarding  them. 

"The  tinker's  donkeys,"  we  said,  "and  one  of  the  tinker  boys." 

The  baby  donkey  attracted  us  and  we  went  to  talk  to  it,  and 
found  its  mother  equally  interesting  notwithstanding  her  worn  gray 
coat  and  her  shabby  ears.  We  decided  that  it  was  her  expression 
we  liked  and  which  was  her  chief  charm.  She  had  such  a  gentle, 
unworldly  face  as  if  even  years  of  pulling  the  tinker's  cart  had 
not  made  her  lose  her  faithful  patience  with  things.  I  wondered  if 
she  felt  at  all  depressed  by  the  thought  that  her  pretty,  fluffy,  gray 
baby  might  be  a  tinker's  donkey  too. 

We  patted  and  stroked  them  both,  and  as  we  were  bending  over 
the  mother,  who  was  lying  down,  the  tinker  boy  called  out  in  a 
friendly  voice,  "  Get  up  now,  Jinny.  Stand  on  yer  feet  an'  let  the 
ladies  see  yer." 

That  was  enough  to  begin  any  country-road  acquaintance  with, 
and  we  at  once  included  the  little  tinker  in  our  conversation  with 
the  donkeys  and  presently  edged  over  to  him. 

He  was  a  nice  little  fellow  about  ten  years  old  and  had  seem- 
ingly monopolized  the  good   looks  of  the   family.      He  had  a  well- 


166  THE   TINKERS    TOM 

featured  face  and  light  hair  that  curled  a  little,  and  a  pair  of  big, 
candid,  blue  eyes — really  quite  beautiful  blue  eyes.  He  was  like 
his  donkey  in  one  respect,  namely  that  he  had  an  expression  which 
was  attractive. 

He  was  sitting  on  the  bank  under  the  hedo-e,  and  his  coarse 
ragged  little  shirt  was  open  at  the  breast,  and  he  plainly  had  some- 
thing hidden  inside  it,  for  we  could  see  an  active  wriggling  going 
on. 

"What  have  you  got  there  ?  "   we  asked. 

He  laughed  and  put  his  hand  into  his  shirt  bosom.  "  Now, 
Spotty,"  he  said,  "  come  out  o'  there.     What  are  yer  'idin'  fer  ?  " 

And  he  pulled  out  and  exhibited  quite  proudly  a  pretty  little  fox 
terrier  puppy. 

Both  my  friend  and  I  are  fond  of  dogs,  and  of  course  we  began  to 
exclaim  and  admire,  and  took  the  little  fellow  in  our  arms,  where  he 
wriggled  and  kissed  us  in  his  puppy  fashion,  using  his  active  red 
tongue  as  affectionately  as  if  we  had  been  quite  old  acquaintances. 
He  was  too  young  a  puppy  to  discriminate. 

"  He's  a  grood  un,"  said  the  little  tinker.  "  He's  a  real  gfood  un. 
His  mother  was  one  o'  Lord  Dunham's.  One  of  'is  gamekeepers 
give  'im  me.  We  stopped  on  a  'eath  near  the  park  an'  the  game- 
keeper was  a  wonderful  nice  man."  ("Wonderful"  seemed  to  be  a 
much  used  adjective  in  Suffolk.  Our  little  maid  at  the  farm  told 
us  among  other  things  that  the  rector  of  the  parish  was  "  a  won- 
derful cross  gentleman.") 

"  He's  very  pretty,"  I  said.  "  I  didn't  see  him  yesterday.  But 
I  didn't  see  you  either  when  we  passed  the  cart  on  the  road.  It 
was  your  cart,  wasn't  it?      I  thought  I  knew  the  donkeys  again." 

"  Yes,  my  lady,"  nodding  his  head  towards  the  part  of  the  road 
where  we  had  passed  the  encampment.  "  We're  stoppin'  in  the  dip 
there." 


HE  PULLED  OUT  AND  EXHIBITED  QUITE  PROUDLY  A  PRETTY  LITTLE  FOX  TERRIER  PUPPY. 


THE   TINKERS    TOM  1 69 


"  It  seems  a  good  place,"  I  said.  "  It  looked  quite  comfortable 
when  we  came  by  it  just  now." 

"  It's  all  right  when  it's  fine,"  he  answered;  "but  it  rained  won- 
derful 'ard  last  night,  an'  it  swum  us  all  out.  It  come  streamin' 
down  an'  floodin'  everythin'  an'  we  'ad  all  of  us  to  get  up." 

"  How  many  of  you  are  there  ?" 

"  'Leven  of  us  with  father  an'  mother — nine  of  us  children. 
There's  one  of  the  little  uns  playin'  down  the  road  there  ;  that's 
Johnny." 

Under  the  hedge  in  the  distance  we  could  see  a  dilapidated  hat 
and  flopping  frock,  which  seemed  to  be  finding  amusement  some- 
how, and  which  I  recognized  at  once  as  being  worn  by  the  infant 
we  had  met  leading  the  donkey  and  cart. 

"  Isn't  he  rather  little  to  be  so  far  off  by  himself?  "  I  inquired. 

"Johnny?  Oh,  no,  my  lady!  Johnny's  four  years  old,  an'  he 
knows  'ow  to  take  care  of  'isself.  He  never  wants  no  one  to  bother 
'im.  He  just  comes  along  by  'isself.  He  likes  the  donkeys  an'  they 
likes  'im.  He  brings  'em  grass  an'  thistles  an'  thing's  to  eat,  an' 
when  he's  tired  he  just  drops  down  by  Jinny  an'  falls  asleep  ag'inst 
her." 

It  was  exactly  what  my  estimate  of  Johnny,  as  he  had  walked 
floppingly  but  sturdily  by  the  donkey  the  day  before,  would  have 
led  me  to  suppose,  that  he  "wouldn't  want  no  one  to  bother 'im." 

"And  you  just  travel  about  with  the  cart  all  the  time,"  I  said, 
wishing  artfully  to  encourage  conversation. 

"All  the  summer  time,"  answered  the  small  tinker.  "In  the 
winter  we  goes  into  the  Union." 

The  Union  is  the  poorhouse,  but  he  spoke  quite  cheerfully  and 
simply,  as  if  this  life,  which  spent  its  summers  by  the  roadside  and 
its  winters  in  the  poorhouse,  were  the  most  natural  one  in  the 
world. 


IJO  THE   TINKER'S   TOM 

I  felt  a  delicacy  about  asking  questions,  but  I  wanted  to  ask 
so  many.  I  wanted  to  know  how  eleven  people  were  distributed  in 
the  Union,  and  if  they  continued  to  be  tinkers,  if  donkeys  were 
taken  in,  and  if  not,  where  they  were  kept,  and  how  Johnny  man- 
aged to  amuse  himself  without  them. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?"  I  asked,  wishing  that  this  commonplace 
query  might  lead  to  further  intimacy,  and  wondering  if  it  would. 

"Tom,"  he  answered.  And  that  set  me  to  wondering  if  tinkers 
had  no  surnames.  It  did  not  seem  to  occur  to  him  that  "  Tom  " 
was  not  enough  for  any  little  tinker. 

Suddenly  he  looked  up  at  me  with  a  questioning  in  his  blue 
eyes. 

"Would  you  like  this  'ere  little  dog,  my  lady?"  he  asked. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  could  not  take  care  of  him,"  I  replied.  "  I  am 
going  away  and  shall  be  traveling  about  all  the  time,  and  he  's  very 
young,  you  know.      Do  you  want  to  sell  him?" 

"  I'd  give  'im  away,"  he  said.  "  He's  'ungry.  I  can't  give  'im 
enough  to  eat.      He  ain't  'ad  no  breakfast,  nor  yet  no  supper." 

"  Poor  little  door,"  \  said.      ««  Had  he  nothing-  at  all?" 

"  I  'adn't  nothin'  myself,"  said  the  little  tinker,  quite  uncomplain- 
ingly, almost  cheerfully.  "  We  'adn't  neither  of  us  no  supper  nor 
no  breakfast.  If  I'd  'ad  any  I'd  a  give  'im  some.  An'  'e's  little, 
you  know,  my  lady;  'e  ain't  nothin'  but  a  pup,  an'  he  don't  under- 
stand." 

The  inference  seemed  to  be  that  being  a  little  tinker  he  did 
understand  himself  that  it  was  altogether  to  be  expected  that  there 
were  numerous  occasions  when  one  had  to  p;o  without  breakfast 
and  supper,  and  that  regular  meals  were  merely  the  sumptuous 
eccentricities  of  the  "  gentry."  And  he  was  such  a  nice  little  tinker, 
with  his  good-looking  face  and  his  blue  eyes  ! 

Being  an  improvident,  indiscriminate  sort  of  person,  I   am   not 


THE    TINKER'S    TOM  \J\ 


always  allowed  to  carry  my  purse  when  I  go  out,  but  this  morning 
I  did  manage  to  find  half  a  crown,  which  I  handed  over  as  quickly 
as  possible  to  the  tinker's  Tom  and  the  fox-terrier  puppy. 

"That  will  buy  you  both  some  breakfast,  won't  it  ?  "  I  said. 

" 'Arf  a  crown  !"  pulling  his  forelock  delightedly.  "Thank  ye, 
my  lady.  Yes,  my  lady,  it'll  keep  us  quite  a  good  bit,  Spotty  an' 
me." 

Possibly  Spotty  suspected  something  friendly  and  agreeable  in 
the  conversation.  He  wriggled  delightedly  and  rolled  over  on  the 
grass,  wagging  his  short  tail  with  such  an  air  of  affectionate  rapture 
that  both  my  friend  and  I  felt  it  necessary  to  kneel  down  by  his 
side  on  the  turf  and  pat  him  and  help  him  to  more  active  rollings. 

The  tinker's  Tom  looked  on  with  such  a  brightly  beaming  face 
that  I  could  not  help  feeling  that  there  must  be  something  more  for 
him  to  do  in  the  world  than  merely  sit  under  the  hedges  in  the  day, 
be  "swum  out"  at  night,  and  "go   into  the  Union"  in  the  winter. 

"  Do  you  ever  stay  anywhere  long  enough  to  be  able  to  get 
any  work  to  do  for  the  farmers?"  I  asked.  "There  are  two  or 
three  boys  who  do  things  for  our  farmer  at  Reydon,  where  we  are 
staying." 

The  tinker's  Tom  looked  at  me  with  a  smile  in  his  frank  blue  eyes. 
I  suppose  he  thought,  in  an  amiable  way,  that  such  simpleness  was 
just  like  "the  gentry"  who  had  only  roadside  acquaintance  with 
tinkers. 

"They  don't  want  such  as  us,  my  lady,"  he  answered.  "The 
farmers  don't  like  the  likes  of  us." 

He  did  not  say  it  at  all  sadly.  He  was  quite  cheerful  and 
resigned  about  it.      His  blue  eyes  had  no  cloud  in  them. 

"  But  why  not  ?"  I  asked.  "  The  shepherd  boy  at  Reydon  is  no 
bigger  than  vou." 

"  'Tain't  the  bigness,  my  lady,"  he  said.       "  I  could  watch  sheep 


172  THE    TINKER'S    TOM 

well  enough.  There  was  a  fanner  in  Devonshire  took  me  in  to  mind 
sheep  once,  but  some  one  made  trouble  for  me,  and  he  believed  'em. 
They  alius  believe  things  about  such  as  us.  They  said  I  beat  the 
sheep.  What  would  I  want  to  beat  a  sheep  for  ?  "  with  a  reasoning 
air. 

Really  I  could  not  imagine  what  anyone — even  the  most  fero- 
cious little  tinker — could  wish  to  beat  a  sheep  for.  Among  my 
acquaintances  at  Reydon  I  numbered  a  whole  flock  of  sheep  with 
whom. I  was  on  calling  terms.  I  mean,  that  my  friend  and  I  used 
to  call  upon  them  by  going  to  their  meadow,  and  standing  outside 
the  barred  gate,  uttering  all  sorts  of  queer  little  sounds  in  the  hope 
of  hitting  upon  the  one  which  would  attract  their  attention.  We 
tried  all  sorts  of  little  noises — such  as  one  calls  horses,  and  dogs, 
and  cows,  and  chickens,  and  pigs  with,  and  we  used  to  laugh  a 
great  deal  at  the  perfectly  apparent  ineffectualness  of  them.  But 
we  always  managed  to  attract  the  sheep's  attention  and  bring  them 
huddling  together  in  a  woolly  mass  round  the  gate,  where  they  stood 
and  stared  at  us  with  their  unmeaning,  clear,  amber  eyes,  and  silly, 
gentle  faces  uplifted.  We  used  to  wonder  if  we  did  not  look  as 
silly  to  them  as  they  did  to  us,  but  we  both  agreed  it  would  be  very 
difficult  to  decide  what  a  sheep  was  thinking  about,  or  if  it  was 
thinking  at  all. 

Remembering  that  flock  of  gentle,  silly  faces,  I  could  not  possi- 
bly answer  Tom's  query  as  to  why  he  should  wish  to  beat  a  sheep. 

"  I  am  sure  you  did  not  beat  them,"  I  said. 
"  But  all  the  same  I  lost  my  place,"  he  answered.     Then  he  gave 
me  a  very  friendly  look  indeed. 

"  Are  you  coming  by  'ere  again,"  he  said,  "  when  you  come 
from  your  walk,  my  lady  ?  " 

"Yes,"  I  answered.      "Why?" 

"  Because  when  I  was  up  the  road  this  mornin',  I  see  a  wonder- 


THE   TINKERS    TOM  173 


ful  big-  mushroom,  an'  I  could  go  an'  get  it,  an'  'ave  it  'ere  for  you 
when  you  come  back." 

"That  would  be  very  kind  of  you,"  I  said.  "  But  I'll  tell  you 
what  you  shall  do  at  the  same  time.  If  you  know  where  there  are 
mushrooms,  you  shall  go  and  gather  me  a  basket  full,  and  bring 
them  to  Elm  Farm,  and  sell  them  to  me.  That  will  be  something 
for  you  and  Spotty." 

He  looked  so  pleased,  and  pulled  his  front  lock  so  enthusiastic- 
ally, that  Spotty  rolled  on  the  grass,  and  wagged  his  tail  in  wrig- 
gling ecstasy.      I  am  sure  he  understood. 

We  left  them  talking  to  each  other  under  the  hedge,  the  two 
donkeys  browsing  a  few  feet  away.  When  we  returned  they  were 
gone,  and  when  we  passed  the  hollow  near  the  wood  the  tinker 
was  eating  some  bread  and  cheese,  and  Johnny  was  examining  the 
mended  kettle,  probably  with  a  view  to  a  possible  entry  into  the  tink- 
ering profession. 

The  next  morning  Tom  brought  the  mushrooms.  They  were 
very  nice,  and  I  paid  him  well  for  them. 

"  Would  you  like  some  water  cresses,  my  lady  ?  "   he  asked. 

"Yes,"  I  answered.  "  And  as  I  have  not  the  proper  change, 
you  can  keep  the  extra  shilling  to  pay  for  them." 

I  had  a  very  clever  demure  little  English  maid  at  that  time. 
She  was  a  Londoner,  and  I  always  felt  she  thought  me  very  unso- 
phisticated in  my  dealings  with  what  she  called  the  "  lower  classes." 
She  never  expressed  this  by  any  disrespectful  look,  for  she  was  the 
most  well-bred  young  person.  But  she  had  a  subdued  little  smile 
in  her  eye  sometimes.  She  had  come  to  the  door  to  take  the  mush- 
rooms, and  when  the  tinker's  Tom  turned  away,  I  saw  her  look 
down  sedately. 

"What  is  it,  Millington?  "   I  asked. 

Her  respectful  demure  little  smile  deepened. 


174  THE   TINKER'S   TOM 


"  He  won't  come  back,  ma'am,"  she  said. 

"  But  why  not  ?  "  I  inquired. 

If  she  had  not  been  so  very  well-bred  a  young  person,  I  feel 
sure  she  would  have  <jiQfo-led. 

"  Because  he  has  got  the  shilling,  ma'am,"  she  answered.  "  If 
you  wanted  the  cresses  you  should  have  kept  the  shilling  till  he 
brought  them,  ma'am." 

"Oh,  Millinpton,"  I  said,  "he  has  such  a  nice  little  face — and 
he  brought  the  mushrooms." 

"  Yes,  'm — but  he  wasn't  paid  for  the  mushrooms  in  advance.  I 
know  the  ways  of  those  people,  ma'am." 

I  thought  of  what  Tom  had  said  of  people's  not  "  liking  the  likes 
of  us,"  and  I  felt  rather  uncomfortable. 

"Well,  we  must  wait  and  see,"  I  said;  "but  I  cannot  help 
believing  in  his  nice  blue  eyes.  And  I  didn't  care  about  the  cresses 
really,  but  I  wanted  to  give  him  the  shilling,  and  let  him  feel  he  had 
earned  it.      But  I  hope  he  will  bring  them — poor  little  tinker." 

He  did  not  bring  them.  Two  or  three  days  later  we  left  Suffolk 
to  begin  our  journey  to  Italy,  and  we  had  not  seen  the  tinker's  Tom 
again.  When  we  spoke  of  him,  Millington's  quiet,  pretty,  little  face 
wore  a  demure,  repressed  smile.  It  is  quite  true  that  she  knew 
more  about  tinkers  as  a  class  than  my  friend  and  I  did.  And  yet, 
to  this  day,  I  have  always  preferred  to  think  that,  perhaps,  there 
was  a  reason  why  the  cresses  were  not  brought — perhaps  they  were 
hard  to  find,  and  Tom  did  not  realize  that  we  were  going  away  so 
soon, — perhaps  one  of  the  donkeys  was  ill,  or  strayed  away,  and  he 
had  to  attend  to  it, — perhaps  Johnny  had  strayed  away  himself  in 
search  of  adventure,  and  had  to  be  found, — perhaps  somebody  had 
caught  cold  the  night  it  rained  so  "  wonderful  'ard,"  and  they  were 
"  swum  out," — it  might  be  one  of  the  babies — or  both — got  the 
croup.      There  might  be  so  many  reasons  why  a  little  tinker  could 


THE   TINKER'S    TOM  175 


not  keep  an  appointment.  And  when  one  does  not  know  positively, 
it  is  so  much  pleasanter  to  believe  a  good  thing-  than  a  bad  one. 
It  may  not  be  as  sharp,  but  I  am  sure  it  is  better,  and  makes  one 
happier,  and  perhaps  better  oneself,  and  less  capable  of  evil.  At 
any  rate,  if  one  thinks  a  few  minutes  one  can  find  a  dozen  possible 
good  reasons,  which  might  balance  against  that  single  bad  one, 
which  Millington  was  respectfully  convinced  was  the  right  one — ■ 
namely,  that  having  the  shilling  in  advance,  he  did  not  feel  it  nec- 
essary to  produce  the  water  cresses.  And  so  when  I  think  of  the 
tinker's  Tom,  I  always  tell  myself  it  must  have  been  any  one  of  the 
dozen  but  that. 


THE  QUITE  TRUE  STORY    OF    AN 
OLD  HAWTHORN  TREE 


When  it  was  young  it  was  very  happy.  It  stood  in  the  deep 
grass  where  daisies  and  buttercups  grew,  and  sleepy, 
kind-eyed  cows  used  to  lie  under  its  shade,  and  birds  used 
to  build  their  nests  in  its  branches,  and  bring  up  their  families  and 
cuddle  together,  twittering  when  it  rained,  and  chirping  and  singing 
on  the  twigs  when  the  sun  came  out  and  made  the  air  sweet  with  a 
warm,  fresh  earthy  odor,  and  changed  the  rain-drops  into  jewels  of 
all  colors. 

It  was  a  tree  with  an  affectionate  nature,  and  it  was  very  fond 
of  the  birds,  and  always  rustled  a  praise  of  their  singing,  and  tried 
to  hold  its  leaves  close  together  to  make  a  shelter  for  them  when  it 
rained.  It  was  so  kind  to  everything  that  chirped  in  its  branches 
or  rested  under  them,  that  it  was  a  great  favorite.  There  was 
always  the  greatest  haste  in  the  spring,  in  nest-building  time, 
among  the  young  couples  to  secure  the  best  places  in  the  Hawthorn 
Tree,  and  sometimes  quite  hasty  marriages  had  been  known  to  take 
place,  so  that  the  bride  and  groom  might  be  in  good  time  and  have 
the  choice  of  the  nooks  amonof  the  branches. 

And  how  sweet  it  was  when  the  pink  and  white  buds  began  to 
peep  out  and  grow  bigger,  and  pinker,  and  whiter  every  day,  until, 


THE   TRUE  STORV  OF  AN  OLD   HAWTHORN    TREE         177 


some  fine  morning,  the  whole  tree  was  a  mass  of  fragrant  blossom, 
and  the  air  all  around  it  was  perfumed.  Then  the  little  children 
used  to  come  to  gather  "  the  may,"  as  they  called  it,  and  roll  about 
on  the  grass,  and  dance  and  sing,  and  make  wreaths  for  their  heads, 
and  have  little  feasts  in  the  shade,  and  enjoy  themselves  until  they 
were  tired,  and  had  to  go  home  and  leave  the  Hawthorn  Tree  to  the 
birds'  twitter  and  the  soft  warm  night  wind  again. 

When  it  grew  older  and  sad  times  came  and  all  was  changed, 
even  to  the  very  air  it  breathed,  the  Hawthorn  Tree  used  to  remem- 
ber those  days  with  an  aching  heart. 

"  Oh,"  it  used  to  sigh  with  all  its  leaves,  "  if  I  could  only  bloom 
again  as  I  did  then,  if  I  could  only  see  the  children  dancing,  and 
see  them  with  rosy  faces  and  laughing  eyes,  instead  of  alwavs  so 
pale  and  sad  and  dirty.  Everything  is  dirty  now,  even  the  birds 
have  soot  on  their  wings,  and  can't  keep  their  nests  clean 

The  change  in  its  happy  life  had  come  about  so  gradually  that 
the  Hawthorn  Tree  could  scarcely  tell  when  first  it  had  begun.  It 
had  an  idea,  however,  that  the  first  signs  of  it  appeared  on  a  spring 
morning  when  it  had  noticed  years  and  years  ago  that  the  smoke  of 
great  London  town  seemed  nearer.  It  had  been  very  busv  bloom- 
ing  at  the  time,  and  it  was  not  quite  sure  that  it  was  not  mistaken, 
but  later  in  the  year,  when  it  had  more  time  to  notice,  it  began  to 
be  quite  certain  that  somehow  the  smoke  had  advanced  more  into 
the  country.  This  puzzled  it  very  much  for  a  long  time  :  it  did 
not  know  how  long,  but  there  came  a  time  when  it  heard  a  sort  ol 
explanation.  It  heard  it  from  two  laborers  who  stopped  to  sit  down 
and  rest  under  it  on  their  way  home  after  their  day's  work.  "  Lun- 
non  town,"  said  one  of  them,  wiping  his  brow  with  his  rough  hand, 
"  Lunnon  town,  it  do  be  growin'  wonderful." 

"  So  it  be,  man  ;   so  it  be,"  answered  the  other. 

"  A-growin'  and  a-spreadin'   over  all   the   land,"  said   the   first; 
12 


178         THE   TRUE  STORY  OF  AN  OLD  HAWTHORN  TREE 

"whether  it  be  for  good  or  bad  there's  no  knowin',  but  Squire,  I 
hear  him  swearin'  t'other  day,  and  sayin'  that  buildin'  was  goin'  on 
so  fast  that  a  body  could  taste  smoke  when  a'  swallowed  his  tankard 
o'  ale.  An'  a'  said  'twouldn't  be  no  time  before  the  streets  would 
be  all  round  about  us,  an' we'd  be  Lunnon  folks  ourselves.  'An',' 
says  he,  '  we'll  have  the  crops  brought  to  ruin  an'  the  game  drove 
off  an'  everythin'  murked  up  wi'  black  soot  an'  cinders.'" 

This  troubled  the  Hawthorn  Tree  very  much.  It  knew  very 
little  of  London,  because  it  had  been  so  bound  down  by  circum- 
stances that  it  had  not  travelled,  but  somehow  the  things  it  had 
heard  of  the  great  city  had  given  it  a  terror  of  it.  It  regarded  it  as 
a  great  black  monster  doing  only  harm  ;  starving  poor  people ;  mak- 
ing rich  people  careless,  and  worldly,  and  selfish  ;  harboring  thieves, 
and  poisoning  the  pure  air  with  its  smoky  breath.  This  was  not 
altogether  a  just  opinion,  but  then  the  Hawthorn  Tree  had  lived 
a  very  quiet,  limited  life ;  an  innocent,  pure,  country  life,  but  not  a 
life  in  which  it  could  learn  how  to  look  at  all  sides  of  a  subject. 
But  it  had  this  good  quality,  however,  the  simple  country  Hawthorn 
Tree,  it  was  not  obstinate,  and  set  in  its  opinions ;  it  was  inexperi- 
enced and  ignorant  in  some  ways,  but  it  was  not  so  ignorant  as  to 
think  it  knew  everything.  This  is  an  ignorance  people  do  not 
recover  from. 

But  it  was  very  much  afraid  of  London,  and  indeed  time  proved 
that  it  had  reason  to  be.  And  it  passed  through  many  sorrows. 
The  years  passed  by — a  great  many  years — and  as  each  year  passed, 
the  dark  cloud  overhanging  London  town  crept  nearer  and  nearer, 
and  the  sky,  which  had  always  before  been  fair  and  clear,  began 
to  look  as  if  its  blue  were  dulled.  More  than  this,  the  Hawthorn 
Tree  could  see  not  only  the  dark  pall  of  smoke,  but  the  chimneys 
themselves  which  poured  it  forth.  Not  only  the  chimneys  of 
houses,  but  tall  chimneys    of    factories    of   all    kinds,    from    which 


THE   TRUE  STORY  OF  AN  OLD  HAWTHORN   TREE         iyg 

volumes  of  blackness  rolled  all  day,  and  sometimes,  it  seemed,  all 
night. 

Everything-  changed  again  and  again  as  the  years  went  by  ;  the 
people  changed  the  fashion  of  the  clothes  they  wore,  their  very 
speech  itself.  Oh,  the  Hawthorn  Tree  saw  many  sad,  and  many 
gay,  and  many  interesting  things.  The  Squire  who  had  tasted  the 
smoke  in  his  tankard  of  ale  died,  and  his  son  and  heir  got  into  debt 
and  sold  his  estate,  and  the  trees  were  cut  down  and  the  estate  cut 
up  into  small  pieces  for  building  houses  upon.  And  the  smoke  and 
chimneys  kept  coming  nearer  and  nearer,  and  the  air  was  not  so  fresh 
as  it  had  been,  and  the  people  that  passed  oftenest  were  not  rosy 
country  farmers  and  their  wives,  but  sometimes  richly-dressed  peo- 
ple who  dashed  by  in  fine  carriages,  and  poorly-dressed  ones  who 
had  pale  faces,  and  who  often  looked  hungry  and  tired.  They 
were  all  going  either  to  or  from  great  London,  and  the  Hawthorn 
Tree  saw  them  all,  and  often  used  to  scatter  its  blossoms  over  the 
pale  ones,  and  sigh  so  with  all  its  leaves,  that  sometimes  they  would 
look  up  and  think  the  wind  had  risen.  "  Oh,  great  London,"  the 
Hawthorn  Tree  was  whispering;  "oh,  great,  busy,  sorrowful,  dark 
London,  do  not  come  nearer;  do  not,  do  not."  But  great  London 
was  too  busy  to  hear.  There  was  too  great  a  whirl  in  its  streets, 
the  carts  and  carriages  and  wagons  were  rumbling  over  its  stones, 
people  were  hurrying  to  and  fro ;  there  was  so  much  noise  and  pleas- 
ure, and  business  and  sorrow,  how  could  the  far-off,  sorrowful  rustle 
of  one  poor  Hawthorn  Tree  make  itself  heard? 

Then  there  came  a  cruel  day  for  the  Hawthorn  Tree. 

It  had  noticed  that  not  far  from  it — in  a  place  it  could  quite 
easily  see — something  was  being-  built — a  large  building.  Men 
were  at  work  constantly.  At  length  it  began  to  grow  taller  in  one 
part  than  in  another,  much  taller. 

One  day  at  noon  some  men  passed,  talking. 


180         THE   TRUE  STORY  OF  AN  OLD  HAWTHORN  TREE 

"  The  factory's  chimney  is  going-  on,"  said  one. 

"Yes,"  said  the  other,  "they  expect  to  finish  it  and  set  to  work 
soon,"  and  they  went  their  way. 

"  It  is  a  chimney,"  said  the  Hawthorn  Tree,  "  a  factory  chim- 
ney  ! 

It  was  just  putting  out  its  first  blossoms,  and  those  that  opened 
that  day  had  no  pink  on  them  at  all,  they  were  quite  white. 

By  the  time  the  tree  was  in  full  bloom  the  factory  chimney  was 
finished,  and  then  it  began  work.  How  the  black  smoke  rolled  out, 
and  darkened  the  blue  sky  and  touched  the  edges  of  the  fleecy, 
snow-white  little  young  clouds  with  dingy  yellow. 

And,  alas  !  it  was  not  long  before  the  Hawthorn  Tree  felt  some- 
thing begin  to  fall  lightly  on  its  blossoms,  on  its  fresh  snow-white 
and  pink  innocent  blossoms  ;   its  lovely,  tender,  fragrant  blossoms. 

"What  is  it?"  it  cried,  trembling.  "  It  is  black,  and  like  very- 
small  flakes  of  black  snow."     Then  the  cruel  truth  flashed  upon  it 

"  It  is  soot !  "  it  cried. 

The  Hawthorn  Tree  burst  into  tears. 

"  There  is  a  yreat  deal  of  dew  this  mornino-  "  said  some  one 
who  stood  under  the  branches. 

Once,  many  years  before,  one  of  the  many  people  from  whom 
the  tree  gained  its  information,  one  of  those  who  rested  in  its  shade, 
had  told  to  some  children  a  story.  It  was  about  a  great  black 
dragon  which  swallowed  up  everything  beautiful  that  came  in  its 
way,  and  left  behind  it  in  its  track  only  desolation  and  dust  and 
ashes. 

How  often  the  Hawthorn  Tree  thought  of  the  story  in  the 
years  that  came  after  the  soot  first  fell  on  its  blossoms.  Great 
London  was  the  dragon.  How  it  crept  onward,  how  it  swallowed 
up  the  green  fields,  the  flowers,  the  trees,  the  hedges  with  the 
birds'   nests   in    them,  the  clean,  country   roads,    the   cottages  with 


THE   TRUE  STORV  OF  AN  OLD   HAWTHORN  TREE         181 

thatched  roofs  and  diamond-paned  windows,  with  tiny  white  curtains 
and  flower  pots  in  them.  How  it  swallowed  up  the  fresh,  rosy 
children,  and  their  gfames  and  laughter.  And  in  its  track  it  left 
hundreds  of  dingy  houses,  hundreds  of  tall  chimneys,  hundreds  of 
black,  close,  ugly  streets,  thousands  of  pale,  hungry-looking  people, 
some  with  worn-out  faces,  some  with  cunning,  evil  ones  ;  some 
simply  dull  and  brutal. 

It  was  not  the  rich  and  gay  part  of  London  which  had  crawled 
out  to  the  Hawthorn  Tree  and  beyond  it;  if  it  had  been  so,  per- 
haps the  tree  might  not  have  feared  and  hated  it  so  and  called  it  a 
dragon.  It  might  then  have  had  quite  a  different  idea,  and  have 
been  delighted  with  the  brigrht  luminous  world  it  would  have  seen, 
with  the  carriages  and  horses,  the  beautiful  women  and  pretty 
children.  But  it  was  only  the  wretched,  squalid  part  the  Hawthorn 
Tree  saw.  And  after  a  long  time,  when  its  heart  was  almost 
broken,  and  it  really  thought  things  could  not  be  any  worse,  it 
found  out  that  it  lived  in  what  was  called  the  East  End,  and  in  one 
of  the  worst  and  most  crowded  parts  of  it. 

It  was  a  lono"  time,  too  lone  for  the  Hawthorn  Tree  to  calculate 
the  months  and  years  before  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  and 
before  all  the  air  was  thick  with  stifling"  smoke  and  unhealthv 
odors;  before  the  miserable  houses  had  huddled  themselves  together 
into  wretched,  filthy  streets,  where  wretched,  filthy  people  starved, 
and  quarrelled,  and  fought,  and  suffered,  and  died,  where  little 
children  cursed  each  other  as  they  played,  in  their  rags,  in  the 
gutters,  where  their  drunken  mothers  staggered  and  fell  on  the 
pavement  or  on  the  steps  of  the  noisome  houses,  and  slept  their 
horrible  besotted  sleep.  There  were  alley-ways  and  courts  where 
decent  people  dared  not  go  in  the  broad  day,  and  in  the  dreadful 
rooms  were  packed  together  drunkards  and  thieves,  and  sometimes 
murderers  hiding  from  justice. 


1 82         THE   TRUE  STORY  OF  AN  OLD  HAWTHORN   TREE 

And,  oh,  the  hunger  and  the  pain  and  the  helplessness  of  the 
little  ones  born  there  !  The  Hawthorn  Tree  used  to  tremble  at 
the  sight  of  them,  more  than  at  the  sight  of  the  great,  heavy,  brutal 
men  who  lounged  about  or  crept  stealthily  round  corners  or  bandied 
coarse  jokes  with  each  other.  They  had  such  pale,  cunning,  old 
little  faces,  such  stunted  bodies,  such  unchildish  ways  when  they 
played  or  fought  together.  They  were,  most  of  them,  used  to  oaths 
and  lies,  and  tricks,  and  abuse  ;  the  first  they  were  not  troubled  by, 
the  last  they  were  sharp  at  slipping  out  of  the  way  of.  They  were 
all  alike  in  one  thing,  however — they  all  liked  the  Hawthorn  Tree, 
black  and  scanty-leaved  and  unlike  itself  as  its  troubles  had  made  it. 

"  Oh,  if  I  could  only  blossom  for  them  !  "  it  used  to  sigh. 

But  its  blossoms  had  grown  fewer  and  fewer  every  spring  from 
the  first ;  they  could  not  live  in  the  poisoned  air,  and  at  last  there 
had  come  a  spring  when  there  had  been  none  at  all,  and  from  that 
time  the  Hawthorn  was  a  hopelessly  sorrowful  tree,  and  if  it  had 
not  had  a  kind  heart,  it  would  have  died  itself  But  it  struggled 
on  in  the  midst  of  the  dirt  and  misery,  though  it  could  not  put 
forth  as  many  leaves  as  it  used  to,  and  some  of  its  branches  died. 
The  truth  was  that  it  had  been  led  to  make  the  struggle  through  a 
very  sad,  simple  story. 

One  morning  there  had  staggered  and  fallen  under  its  poor 
shade  a  little  shuddering,  sobbing  child,  such  a  thin,  white-faced 
little  thing,  with  such  a  woeful  look  in  its  hungry  blue  eyes,  and 
with  the  marks  of  cruel  stripes  and  bruises  showing  through  its 
rags.  It  lay  and  sobbed  and  shivered  until  the  Hawthorn  shivered 
too,  and  at  last,  because  it  could  do  nothing  else,  dropped  two  or 
three  of  its  leaves  upon  its  cheek.  The  child  moved,  and,  by 
chance,  the  little  leaves  fell  into  its  hand.  Who  knows  but  that  all 
the  Hawthorn's  wishing  and  sympathy  had  given  the  poor  little 
leaves  some  touch  of  the  magic  charm  of  love? 


THE    TRIE  STORY  OF  AN  OLD   HAWTHORN   TREE         183 


The  child  looked  at  them  through  her  tears ;  the  rain  had 
washed  them  to  a  fresher  green  than  usual,  and  to  a  child  who  had 
never  seen  the  country  grass  and  flowers,  they  seemed  so  pretty. 
After  she  had  looked  at  them  a  few  minutes,  she  stopped  crying, 
then  she  sat  up  and  began  to  scratch  at  the  earth  with  her  fingers. 
The  tree  wondered  if  she  were  going  to  make  dirt  pies,  but  she 
was  not.  She  made  little  squares  of  the  soft  dirt,  and  stuck  the 
stems  of  the  leaves  in  them.  Perhaps  sometimes  she  had  wandered 
far  enough  into  the  better  part  of  the  city  to  see  a  square  or  gar- 
den, and  she  was  trying  to  make  something  like  it.  She  busied 
herself  over  it,  and  changed  it  again  and  again  ;  it  was  more  to 
her  than  a  few  tiny  squares  of  dust  and  a  few  leaves;  it  was  a  new 
interest  which  actually  filled  her  mind  so  that  she  forgot  her  sor- 
rows. Did  she  know  that  the  Hawthorn  Tree  was  watching  her 
and  whispering,  "  Poor  child,  poor  child  !  "  She  felt  some  comfort 
about  her  at  all  events,  and  suddenly  she  put  her  arms  round  the 
trunk  of  the  tree  and  rested  her  sorrowful,  thin  cheek  against  it, 
and  looked  up  in  the  branches,  and  smiled  as  if  at  a  friend. 

"I  mustn't  die,"  said  the  Hawthorn  Tree  tearfully  to  itself  when 
at  last  she  went  away.  "  It  is  quite  plain  that  I  mustn't  die.  The 
— the  children  need  me,  even  though  I  can't  blossom."  It  would 
have  been  cut  down  without  doubt,  but  that  it  chanced  to  stand  on 
a  small  square  of  ground  whose  owners  were  rich  and  unbusiness- 
like enoupfh  to  forget  that  it  belonged  to  them.  At  one  time  there 
had  been  a  sort  of  wooden  fencing  about  this  piece  of  ground,  but 
this  had  rotted  and  broken  and  fallen  away  here  and  there,  so  that 
there  were  gaps  in  it,  and  anyone  who  wished  could  make  his  way 
in  and  out. 

Because  it  was  neglected  and  seemed  to  belong  to  no  one,  as 
the  neighborhood  became  worse  and  worse,  this  enclosure  became 
such    a   hideous    prison    for    the    poor    Hawthorn    Tree    as   would 


184         THE  TRUE  STORY  OF  AN  OLD   HAWTHORN  TREE 

in  the  end  have  been  its  death  if  rescue  had  not  come.  But  I 
must  tell  you  how  this  came  about.  In  the  dreadful  houses  in  the 
filthy  narrow  streets  and  courts  the  people  who  were  herded  to- 
gether often  had  wretched  refuse  they  wished  to  throw  away.  A 
cat  died,  a  dog,  it  was  easy  to  throw  them  over  the  rotten  palings 
into  the  enclosure  ;  a  poor  creature  had  fever  or  small-pox,  and  the 
mattress  on  which  she  had  died  must  be  disposed  of.  So,  one  dark 
night,  it  was  bundled  up  and  thrown  into  the  enclosure  to  lie  there, 
rotted  by  the  rain  and  sun,  and  beaten  into  chaff  by  the  wind,  which 
scattered  its  seeds  of  plague  in  the  air.  Drunken  men  and  women 
used  to  stagger  into  the  enclosure  to  wrangle  and  fight  and  fall 
into  stupid  sleep.  Thieves  used  to  meet  there  to  talk  over  their 
plans ;  often  desperate  brawls  arose  which  ended  in  the  flash  of  a 
knife  in  the  air  or  the  thud  of  a  bludgeon,  and  awful  oaths  and  cries 
which  brought  policemen  and  people  running  together.  Once  there 
was  found  among  the  loathsome  weeds  the  striped  dress  of  a  con- 
vict who  had  escaped  and  changed  his  clothes  here,  so  that  he  might 
not  be  recognized. 

The  Hawthorn  Tree  remembered  the  night  this  had  happened. 
It  had  been  a  dark,  sultry  night,  and  the  first  thing  the  tree  noticed 
was  a  stealthy,  shuffling  sound  as  if  someone  were  making  his  way 
through  a  gap  in  the  side  of  the  board  fencing  which  was  left  stand- 
ing;  then  heavy  limping  feet  had  dragged  over  the  ground  ;  there 
had  been  the  sound  of  hoarse,  panting  breathing,  which  had  drawn 
nearer  and  nearer  till  the  breather  stood  beneath  the  Hawthorn 
Tree,  and  then,  with  a  stifled  oath,  he  dropped,  threw  himself  on 
the  earth,  and  leaned  his  back  against  the  trunk. 

"It's  dark  enough  'ere,"  he  said;  "an"  I  shan't  have  no  bull's- 
eye  lanterns  a-flashin'  in  an'  disturbin'  of  me.  They're  not  fond  of 
this  'ere  corner,  them  blokes.  They  leaves  it  to  itself;  I  shall  have 
a  chance  to  change  these  'ere  togs  for  them  I  nipped  from  that  chap 


THE  TRUE  STORY  OF  AN  OLD   HAWTHORN  TREE  185 


as  'ad  fell  asleep  on  his  tramp.  They  ain't  swell,  but  they're  less 
conspikyus  than  them  I'm  wearin'." 

He  changed  his  convict's  dress  for  the  poor  things  he  had  stolen, 
and  then  limped  painfully  away.  He  had  hurt  his  leg  in  making 
his  escape;  it  was  said  the  next  day  when  his  things  were  found 
that  there  were  spots  of  blood  on  some  of  them. 

"Strange  people  sit  under  me  in  these  days,"  sighed  the  Haw- 
thorn Tree,  "and  somehow  I  can't  help  feeling  sad  for  them  all — 
even  the  bad  ones.  Perhaps  they  can't  be  good  ones  when 
they  live  here  and  never  breathe  the  fresh  air  or  see  anything 
blossom." 

But  not  long  after  this  it  found  out  that  there  were  some  who 
lived  there  who  were  good,  but  it  was  also  true  that  they  had  often 
breathed  the  fresh  air  and  seen  things  blossom. 

Not  far  from  the  loathsome,  barren  plot  of  ground  where  the 
Hawthorn  Tree  lived  its  sad  life  there  was  a  church.  It  was  an  old 
church  ;  so  old  that  in  its  records  there  were  the  deaths  of  some  of 
the  first  people  who  had  died  in  the  Great  Plague  ot  London  hun- 
dreds of  years  before.  It  was  not  a  beautiful  church,  and  certainly 
not  a  fashionable  one  ;  but  it  had  a  rector,  and  his  rectory  was  a 
quaint  house  across  the  street,  only  a  short  distance  from  the  Haw- 
thorn Tree.  It  might  not  be  considered  a  very  enviable  thing  to 
be  the  rector  of  this  East-end  parish,  but  the  rector  and  his  young 
wife  were  people  with  strong  and  warm  hearts,  and  found  their 
hands  and  time  full  of  things  to  interest  them  and  keep  them  busy. 
It  would  be  very  easy  to  write  a  whole  book  full  of  the  things  they 
found  to  do  and  did,  but  I  have  time  to  tell  onlv  one  thine,  how 
they  became  friends  of  the  Hawthorn  Tree  and  saved  it  from  death 
and  despair.  The  tree  had  seen  the  rector  often  as  he  passed,  and 
had  noticed- how  different  his  keen,  handsome  face  was  from  those 
of  the  other  people  who  went  by.      It  was  the  face  of  a  gentleman, 


1 86         THE  TRUE  STORY  OF  AN  OLD  HAWTHORN  TREE 

and  though  the  Hawthorn  Tree  did  not  know  what  a  gentleman  was, 
it  could  see  the  differences  in  the  faces. 

''  He  must  have  breathed  the  pure  air.  He  must  have  seen 
thingfs  blossom,"  was  the  vao-ue  thought  in  its  tree  heart. 

There  was  always  a  crowd  of  rough,  brutal  men  about  the  cor- 
ner of  the  uncared-for  piece  of  ground.  As  there  was  nothing  built 
upon  it  and  it  seemed  to  belong  to  nobody,  the  worst  of  the  bad  and 
idle  ones  eot  into  the  habit  of  lounQfins:,  smoking,  anc[  quarrelling 
there,  and  even  the  policemen  avoided  it.  Drunken  fellows  stag- 
gered and  squabbled,  shouted  and  maundered  there,  lads  played 
pitch  and  toss,  thieves  bandied  jokes  about  their  spoils,  and  met  to 
plot  and  talk  their  plans  over.  The  place  was  so  given  over  to 
roystering  noise  and  evil  that  the  more  decent  people  felt  it  unsafe 
to  pass  it. 

"The  place  is  an  eyesore  and  a  horror,"  the  rector  said,  look- 
ing across  the  street  from  his  study  window.  "  Every  pestilential 
thing  is  thrown  into  it  to  poison  the  air ;  that  is  bad  enough  to  begin 
with,  and  the  plague  that  gathers  about  that  corner  is  the  worst  of 
all.      Something  ought  to  be  done." 

He  and  his  wife  often  said  something  ought  to  be  done,  but 
it  seemed  impossible  to  say  what  could  be  done.  The  poisonous 
odors  of  the  rottino-  o-arbacre  which  was  thrown  over  the  remnants 
of  tottering,  decaying  palings  made  their  way  across  the  street  to 
the  rectory,  and  the  riotous  groups  with  their  oaths  and  foul  words 
made  it  necessary  often  to  keep  the  windows  closed. 

"That  poor  old  Hawthorn  Tree,"  said  the  rector's  wife  one  day, 
"  what  a  horrible,  desolate  life  for  it !  The  wonder  is  that  it  did  not 
die  long  ago.  And  yet  it  struggles  to  put  out  a  few  green  leaves 
every  year/' 

"  It  is  marvellous  that  any  green  thing  can  live  there,"  said  the 
rector.       "  One  often  wonders  at  the   courage  of  the   poor  bits  of 


THE    TRUE  STORY  OF  AN  OLD   HAWTHORN   TREE         187 

plants  that  somehow  manage  to  live  and  feebly  bloom  in  their 
rough  pots  or  boxes  in  the  windows  of  some  poor  child  or  woman 
living  in  one  room  up  a  wretched  court." 

One  might  also  fancy  that  they  had  souls,  and  longed  to  give 
their  bit  of  brightness  as  a  sort  of  comfort  to  the  miserable  lives. 

The  rector  looked  very  thoughtful.  He  knew  those  wretched 
courts  and  miserable  lives  so  well. 

"If  that  unholy  spot,"  he  said,  "could  be  cleansed,  fenced  in, 
and  given  up  to  the  poor  old  Hawthorn  Tree  to  die  peaceably  in — 
or,  if  the  poor  thing  might  live,  and  even  have  some  other  humble 
green  thing  near  it — how  it  would  purify  the  whole  street." 

He  ended  the  words  almost  with  a  start,  as  if  some  sudden 
thought  had  struck  him. 

"That  they  should  even  see  some  simple  fresh  thing  putting 
forth  its  leaves  and  growing  in  their  midst  would  be  a  good  thing1," 
he  said,  "  if  it  could  only  be — ah,  if! 

And  this  was  the  beginning  of  the  Hawthorn  Tree's  new  life — 
these  few  sentences  which  awakened  a  bold  thought  in  the  rector's 
mind — a  thought  which  ripened  into  a  bold  plan.  And  the  rector 
was  not  a  man  to  make  a  plan,  and  then  not  work  hard  to  make  it 
a  reality.  The  Hawthorn  Tree  did  not  know  any  of  the  details, 
and  would  not  have  dared  even  to  hope  for  what  afterwards  came 
to  pass  ;  it  did  not  know  how  the  rector's  thought  took  shape,  and 
how  in  a  few  days  he  was  hard  at  work  developing  his  plan,  and  tak- 
ing his  first  steps,  how  he  went  to  see  this  man  and  that,  and  talked 
to  each  of  them  in  deepest  earnestness  of  his  poor  East-end 
parish,  and  the  suffering  and  hopelessness  and  crime  in  it;  of  the 
people  who  starved  and  stifled  in  their  dreadful  streets  and  alleys  ; 
of  the  little  children  who  lived  through  their  helpless  childhood  with- 
out one  innocent  childish  pleasure  or  joy,  who  never  saw  grass  or 
flowers  or  trees  growing,  being  so  far  from  the  public  parks  and  so 


1 88         THE  TRUE  STORY  OF  AN  OLD  HAWTHORN  TREE 

uncared  for.  And  then  he  told  of  the  loathsome  plot  of  ground  and 
the  harmful  rubbish  thrown  on  it,  and  the  odors  and  infection 
poisoning-  the  air.  He  could  tell  them  what  a  death-trap  and  ren- 
dezvous of  criminals  it  had  become,  of  the  foul-mouthed,  riotous 
crowd  always  at  the  corner,  of  its  desertion  by  the  police,  who  felt 
they  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  and  of  the  murderous  fights  that 
went  on  at  night  under  cover  of  the  broken   palings. 

And  then  he  told  them  of  his  plan,  and  when  they  smiled  at  it 
as  impossible,  he  was  not  discouraged.  There  were  some  who  did 
not  smile,  but,  being  moved  by  his  eloquence  and  earnestness, 
listened  with  interest,  and  asked  questions  and  promised  their 
help. 

So  a  few  months  afterwards  the  Hawthorn  Tree  saw  a  new  thing 
happen.  The  rector  came  over  with  some  workmen,  and  these 
workmen  began  to  clear  away  the  heaps  of  filth  and  rubbish  from 
the  piece  of  ground,  and  after  this  had  been  done  they  roughly,  but 
strongly,  repaired  the  tumble-down  fence,  so  that  people  could  not 
pass  through  the  gaps. 

"Can  it  be  that  someone  has  bousfht  the  ©rounds  ?  "  said  the 
Hawthorn  Tree.  "  No  one  would  want  it  except  to  build  another 
dreadful  factory  on,  with  another  tall  chimney  to  pour  forth  smoke. 
They  will  cut  me  down  before  they  do  anything  else  ;  but  I  do  not 
care,"  it  added  with  a  sigh,  "  I  am  stifling  to  death,  I  cannot  blos- 
som, even  my  leaves  are  going,  and  children  cannot  come  to  play 
under  me  now." 

But  it  seemed  that  no  one  was  going  to  cut  it  down  at  once, 
whether  the  factory  were  built  or  not,  and  it  could  not  help  noticing 
that,  at  least,  the  air  was  better  and  the  place  quieter.  For  some 
reason  the  policemen  began  to  take  notice  of  the  corner  and  use 
their  authority  when  there  was  any  loitering  about  or  tendency  to 
disorder.     The  bad  characters  who  had  used    it   as   a  rendezvous 


THE   TRUE  STORY  OF  AN  OLD  HAWTHORN  TREE        189 

found  they  must  keep  away ;  there  was  no  more  foul  language,  no 
more  pitch  and  toss,  there  were  no  more  drunken  fights. 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,  whatever  happens,"  thought  the  Hawthorn 
Tree. 

And  at  last — but  it  was  after  the  rector  had  worked  very  hard 
indeed  in  all  sorts  of  ways — there  came  a  day  when  more  work- 
men arrived  and  began  to  work  in  such  a  way  as  made  the  Haw- 
thorn Tree  quite  sure  its  last  hour  had  come.  They  began  to  dig 
in  the  hard  beaten  earth,  they  dug  deep  into  it  with  picks  and  broke 
it  with  spades. 

"  But  why  don't  they  cut  me  down  first?"  said  the  poor  sad 
tree;    "surely  they  have  forgotten  me,  and  they  will  do  it  soon." 

The  second  day  the  rector  came  into  the  ground  and  stood 
among  them,  talking  and  giving  orders,  and  at  last  he  turned 
round. 

"Loosen  the  earth  well  around  the  roots  of  that  old  tree;  I 
want  to  give  it  a  chance  to  live,"  he  said.  "  It  has  held  its  own 
bravely  enough,  poor  old  thing.  If  it  lives,  it  will  be  the  first  tree 
in  the  garden." 

"The  garden,"  said  the  Hawthorn  Tree,  "  a  garden;  oh  !  what 
does  he  mean  ?  A  chance  to  live  !  I  am  not  to  be  cut  down  ! 
What  are  they  going  to  do  ?  " 

It  found  a  reason  for  living,  as  it  looked  on  day  after  day  and 
listened  and  learned  about  the  rector's  plan. 

It  took  time  to  carry  it  out,  a  time  long  enough  to  allow  much 
work  to  be  done,  to  allow  grass  to  grow,  young  trees  and  flowers 
to  be  planted  and  thrive,  paths  to  be  laid  out,  and  such  things  to 
be  accomplished  as  the  Hawthorn  Tree  could  not  have  believed 
could  ever  be  done. 

For  the  rector  had  worked  until  he  had  managed  with  the  aid 
of  those  who  listened  without  laughing  at  his  plan,  and  indeed  with 


igo         THE   7  RUE  STORY  OF  AN  OLD   HAWTHORN  TREE 

the  aid  of  some  who  had  smiled  at  first,  to  get  possession  of  the 
deserted  ground  which  had  been  a  place  so  awful  and  worse  than 
desolate.  And  with  the  aid  of  time  and  wonderful  energy  and 
planning  he  had  transformed  it  into  a  fresh,  sweet,  blooming,  rest- 
ful place,  where  the  brown  sparrows  twittered,  and  all  sorts  of  green 
and  bright  things  grew,  and  the  little  children  who  had  never  seen 
such  things  before  came  in  to  wander  about  and  watch  them  orovv- 
ing  day  by  day,  and  wonder  at  and  delight  in  them.  And  the 
rector  called  it  the  People's  Garden. 

It  seemed  almost  incredible  that  such  a  thing  could  be  in  such  a 
place,  and  be  so  fresh  and  bloom  and  thrive  so  well.  But  the  rector 
knew  what  simple  brave  things  would  grow  even  in  East-end  London 
air,  and  he  had  such  things  planted.  There  were  no  rare  things, 
but  they  were  all  rare  to  the  poor  people  and  the  children  who  lived 
in  the  alleys  and  courts.  There  was  thick  green  grass,  where  dai- 
sies and  buttercups  actually  grew  ;  there  were  pretty  humble  flowers, 
and  bushes,  and  small  trees  ;  there  was  even  a  little  irregular  pond 
made  to  look  quite  like  a  sort  of  stream,  and  fresh-water  plants  grew 
in  it,  and  there  was  a  little  fountain  to  cool  and  clear  the  air.  And 
on  this  the  rector  had  one  or  two  model  ships  and  boats  for  the 
sake  of  the  children,  who,  seeing  them,  would  have  something  to 
examine  and  think  of.  And  there  was  a  cool,  deep  grotto,  built  of 
pieces  of  rock,  and  out  of  its  crevices  ferns  and  creeping  plants 
sprang  ;  and  there  were  seats  where  people  could  rest  in  the  shade 
and  freshness  and  be  quiet.  It  was  wonderful  how  much  was  made  of 
that  one  piece  of  ground,  and  how  almost  impossible  it  seemed  when 
one  was  in  it  that  this  greenness,  and  sweetness,  and  calm  could  be 
in  the  East-end  of  London,  and  only  a  short  distance  from  the  most 
dreadful  places.  It  sweetened  and  purified  all  the  air  about  it,  and 
surely  it  sweetened  and  purified  the  poor  lives  of  those  who  came 
to  it, 


THE  TRUE  STORY  OF  AN  OLD   HAWTHORN  TREE.  191 


"  It  is  for  the  people,"  said  the  rector,  "  for  the  tired  ones,  and 
those  who  are  ill,  and  for  the  mothers  and  children." 

And  the  poor  old  HawthornTree's  almost  broken  heart  was  healed. 

From  the  first  the  rector  had  felt  tenderly  towards  it,  and  had 
tried  to  help  it  to  live.  One  of  the  first  things  done  was  to  wash  off 
with  the  hose  its  poor  trunk  and  branches  and  leaves,  to  free  them 
from  the  years  of  smoke,  and  soot,  and  dust.  The  ground  about  it 
was  taken  care  of,  and  it  was  encouraged  in  every  way  the  rector 
and  the  gardener  could  think  of.  And  when  it  felt  and  saw  the  grass 
growing  about  its  feet,  and  leaves  and  buds  putting  forth,  a  thrill 
went  through  its  every  fibre  and  it  gained  new  strength.  And  one 
day  in  the  spring  two  little  country  birds  who  had  lost  themselves 
fluttered  and  twittered  in  one  of  its  boughs. 

"  One  might  build  a  nest  here  if  there  were  more  leaves,"  one  of 
them  chirped.  "  It's  very  strange  to  find  the  country  here.  I  think 
it  must  be  the  country.      We  might  be  quite  safe." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  have  more  leaves,"  trembled  the  Hawthorn  Tree, 
though  they  did  not  understand  it.  "I  am  so  happy  that  I  feel  sure 
I  shall  have  more  leaves,  and  perhaps,  oh,  perhaps,  I  shall  even 
blossom." 

And  as  the  days  became  warmer  it  did  begin  to  have  more 
leaves,  more  and  more  every  day,  until  the  birds  began  to  fly  to  it 
whenever  they  wanted  to  twitter  and  rest  and  preen  their  feathers, 
and  the  rector,  passing  by  one  day  with  his  wife,  stood  beneath  it 
and  looked  up  with  a  pleased  smile. 

"  See  how  the  old  Hawthorn  Tree  has  flourished,"  he  said.  "  It 
has  grown  quite  young  again.  And  there— why,  my  dear,  there  are 
some  blossoms  !  How  delighted  the  children  will  be  to  see  them  ! 
The  little  lame  boy  told  me,  the  other  day,  he  had  never  seen  a  tree 
with  flowers  on  it."  And  he  laid  his  hand  on  its  rough  bark  quite 
tenderly. 


192         THE  TRUE  STORY  OF  AN  OLD   HAWTHORN  TREE. 

"  I  am  so  happy,"  whispered  the  Hawthorn  Tree.  "  The  birds 
rest  in  my  branches,  and  the  grass  and  all  the  flowers  and  leaves  are 
my  friends  ;  even  the  little  flags  and  water  reeds  in  the  little  lake 
whisper  and  rustle  kind  things  to  me.  And  the  little  children  play 
about  me  until  their  faces  are  quite  bright.  Oh,  I  am  glad  I  tried 
to  live;    I  am  happy  again." 

The  rector  did  not  hear,  of  course.  He  thought  a  little  breeze 
was  passing,  and  he  lifted  his  hat  to  enjoy  its  coolness. 

"  I  think  I  shall  put  one  of  the  seats  under  it,"  he  said;  "the 
children  are  so  fond  of  it,  they  are  always  clustering  about  it." 

And  he  had  the  seats  put  there,  and  I  have  seen  them,  for,  as  I 
have  written  at  the  head  of  the  page,  this  is  the  Quite  True  Story 
of  a  Hawthorn  Tree;  at  least,  I  think  it  is  the  story  the  Hawthorn 
Tree  would  tell  if  it  could  speak.  The  rector  took  me,  not  so  long 
ago,  and  showed  me  his  beautiful,  wonderful,  little  People's  Garden, 
and,  as  we  walked  about  the  paths  and  looked  at  the  fresh,  bravely- 
growing  flowers  and  bushes  and  plants,  he  told  me  how  horrible  a 
place  it  had  once  been,  and  how  he  had  formed  the  plan  to  rescue 
and  transform  it  from  a  hideous  plague-spot  gathering  all  evil  and 
loathsome  things  about  it,  to  a  quiet,  bright  nook,  where  the  poor 
people  could  come  and  find  beautiful,  simple  nature,  even  in  their 
dirty  East-end.  And  he  showed  me  the  shaded  seats  and  the  bath- 
chairs,  of  which  he  had  two  or  three,  so  that  the  ill  and  helpless 
ones  might  be  brought  from  their  stifling  garrets  and  cellars,  and 
drawn  to  the  dear  little  garden  and  rest  there,  and  breathe  the  purer 
air  and  watch  the  leaves  moved  by  the  summer  wind.  And  it  was 
then  he  showed  me  the  Hawthorn  Tree,  and  told  me  it  had  been 
there  since  there  had  been  fields  about  it,  and  all  through  the  long 
years  when  it  was  surrounded  only  by  heaps  of  filth  and  garbage. 
And  I  could  not  help  but  love  and  pity  it. 

Ah,"  I   said,  "  how  happy  it  must  be,  and  how  surprised  to  find 


THE    TRUE   STORY  OF  AN  OLD   HAWTHORN  TREE.  193 


the  grass  growing  about  it  again  !  It  must  feel  as  if  it  were  once 
more  in  the  country.  What  sorrowful  years  it  must  have  lived 
through,  and  what  a  story  it  could  tell !  I  wish  it  could  tell  it  to 
me  ! 

And  as  I  did  not  know  the  tree  language,  and  it  could  not  tell 
it  to  me,  I  tried  to  tell  it  to  myself,  and  so  I  have  tried  to  tell  it  to 
you. 

13 


SCR/BNER'S  'BOOKS  FOR   THE   YOUNG. 


A     3SEW     BOOK     BY     MR.     STOCKTON. 


THE    CLOCKS   OF    RONDAINE 

AND   OTHER   STORIES. 

By    KRAXK    R.    STOCKTON. 

With  24  illustrations  by  E.  H.  Blashfield,  W.  A.  Rogers,  D.  C.  Beard  and  others. 

One   Volume,  sqtia?-e  8vo,  $1.50. 

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NEW  BOOKS  BY  G.  A.  HENTY. 

For  the  Season  of  1892-93  Mr.  Henty  adds  to  his  list  of  fascinating  stories  of  adven- 
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In  Greek  Waters  :  A  Story  of  the  Grecian  War  of  Independence;  and,  Condemned  as 
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BERIC    THE    BRITON: 

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Boadicea  ;  and  after  the  defeat  of  that  heroic  queen  (in  A.  D.  62)  he  continues  the  strug- 
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that  he  is  made  the  personal  protector  of  the  Emperor  Nero.  Finally  he  escapes  and, 
returning  to  Britain,  becomes  a  wise  ruler  of  his  own  people. 

IN    GREEK    WATERS: 

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olivine  edges,  $1.50. 

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ish oppression.  Mr.  Beveridge  and  his  son  Horace,  like  most  Englishmen  at  that  time, 
are  stirred  with  enthusiasm  for  the  down-trodden  nation.  So  they  fit  out  a  privateer, 
load  it  with  military  stores,  and  set  sail  for  Greece  to  assist  the  insurgents.  On  their 
arrival,  however,  they  find  that  the  leaders  of  the  insurrection  are  a  cowardly,  thieving, 
blood-thirsty  crew.  So  they  resolve  to  hold  aloof  from  politics,  and  devote  themselves  to 
assisting  the  victims  of  war  on  both  sides.  The  story  is  full  of  stirring  adventure,  and 
will  delight  the  boy  who  loves  the  sea  and  the  hazards  of  seafaring. 

CONDEMNED    AS    A   NIHILIST: 

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Siberia.  His  first  attempt  to  escape  is  unsuccessful,  and  he  is  put  at  work  in  the  mines 
at  Kara.  He  again  escapes  ;  walks  800  miles  till  he  reaches  the  Angara  River  ;  buys  a 
canoe  and  sails  down  the  Siberian  rivers  for  a  thousand  miles  ;  coasts  along  the  Arctic 
shores  of  Russia,  and  at  last  after  many  exciting  adventures  with  bears,  wolves,  and 
hostile  Samoyedes,  he  reaches  Norway,  and  thence  home  after  a  perilous  journey  which 
lasts  nearly  two  years. 


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be  the  lineal  descendant 
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founded  on  the  experi- 
ences of  a  young  En- 
glish friend  of  the  au- 
thor, and  though  it  is 
full  of  hairbreadth  es- 
capes, nune  of  the  inci- 
dents are  improbable. 
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Khartoum. 

A  Tale  of  the  Nile  Ex- 
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daring  done  in  that  cam- 
paign as  brave  as  any 
that  throw  a  lustre  on 
the  pages  of  English 
histoiy.  In  freshness 
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ety of  incident  the  story 
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Captain  Mavne  Reid." 
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THE   THIRSTY    SWORD. 

*A  STORY  OF  THE  NORSE  INVASION  OF  SCOTLAND  (1262-65). 
By   ROBERT   LEIGHTON. 


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a  map. 


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dinavian Sagas. 
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period  of  Scottish 
history  which  end- 
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Rcderic  MacAlpin, 
the  sea  rover,  came 
to  the  Isle  of  Bute; 
how  he  slew  his 
brother,  Earl  Hara- 
ish,  in  Rothesay 
Castle  ;  how  Alpin, 
the  earl's  eldest 
son,  challenged  his 
uncle  to  ordeal  by 
battle,  and  was 
likewise  slain;  how 
young  Kenric  now 
became  King  of 
Bute,  and  vowed 
vengeance  against  the  slayer  of  his  brother  and  father  ;  and  finally  it  tells  how  this  vow 
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AASTA   GRIPPED    HER    SWORD    AND    LEAPT   UPON    RODERIC. 


THREE    BOOKS    BV    HJAL1HAR    H. 


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OTTO  OF  THE  SILVER  HAND. 

WRITTEN  AND  ILLUSTRATED  BY  HOWARD  PYLE. 
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One  volume,  royal  8vo,  half  leather, $2.00 

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THE  MERRY  ADVENTURES  OF  ROBIN  HOOD 

OF  GREAT  RENOWN  IN  NOTTINGHAMSHIRE. 
WRITTEN  AND  ELABORATELY  ILLUSTRATED  BY  HOWARD  PYLE. 

One  volume,  royal  8vo,         -        -        -        -        -         -  -  -         $3.00 

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Ocean. 

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Post. 

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Daily  News. 

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ville Commercial. 

"  This  superb  book  is  unquestion- 
ably the  most  original  and  elaborate 
ever  produced  by  any  American  artist. 
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the  complete  and  consecutive  story  of 
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their  haunts  in  Sherwood  Forest,  gathered  from  the  old  ballads  and  legends.  Mr  Pyle's 
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SCR/BNER'S  'BOOKS  FOR   THE   YOUNG. 


BRIC-A-BRAC  STORIES. 

MRS.   BURTON  HARRISON. 

Witli    24   full-page  Illustrations    by    Walter 
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"When  the  little  boy,  for  whose  benefit  the  various 

articles  of   bric-a-brac   in    his   father's  drawing-room 

relate    stories    appropriate    to    their    several    native 

countries,  exclaims,  at  the  conclusion  of  one  of  them: 

'  I  almost  think  there  can't  be  a  better  one  than  that !' 

the  reader,  of  whatever  age,  will  probably  feel  inclined 

to  agree  with  him.   Upon  the  whole,  it  is  to  be  wished 

that  every  boy  and  girl  in  America,  or  anywhere  else, 

might  become  intimately  acquainted  with  the  contents 

of  this  book.     There  is    more  virtue  in  one  of  these 

stories  than  in  the  entire  library  of  modern  juvenile 

literature." — -Julian  Hawthorne. 
Specimen  Illustration^  redziced. 


THE  OLD-FASHIONED  FAIRY  BOOK. 

BY  MRS.  BURTON  HARRISON. 

With  many  Quaint  Illustrations  by  Bliss  Rosina  Emmet. 

One  volume,  square  t6mo,     -  


-       fi.25. 

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Harrison's  "Old-Fashioned  Fairy  Tales,' where  the  giant,  the  dwarf,  the  fairy,  the  wicked 
princess,  the  ogre,  the  metamorphosed  prince,  and  all  the  heroes  of  that  line  come  into 
play  and  action.  The  graceful  pencil  of  Miss  Rosina  Emmet  has  given  a  pictorial 
interest  to  the  book." — Frank  R.  Stockton. 


LITTLE  PEOPLE: 

And  Their  Homes  in  Meadows.  Woods  and  Waters. 
BY  STELLA  LOUISE  HOOK. 

Beautifully    Illustrated   by   Dan    Beard   and 
Harry  Beard- 

One  volume,  square  8vo,         -  $1.50. 

"A  beautifully  illustrated  volume  for  young  people,  in  which 
the  habits,  humors,  and  eccentricities  of  insects  are  delightfully 
described.  The  secrets  and  charms  of  insect-land  are  laid  open  by 
her  vivacious  pen,  and  the  astonishing  insects  are  described  in  a 
manner  that  makes  them  personal  acquaintances." 

— Cambridge   Tribune. 


SCRIBNER'S  'BOOKS  FOR    THE   YOUNG. 


A  NEW  VOLUME  OF  STORIES  BY  MR.  PAGE. 
AMONG   THE   CAMPS; 

OR,   YOUNG  "PEOPLE'S  STORIES  OP  THE   W A% 
BY  THOMAS  NELSON  PAGE. 

With  Eight  full-page  Illustrations  toy  W.  E.  Sheppard  and  others. 

One  volume,  square  8vo,  uniform  with   "Two  Little  Confederates,"  $7.50. 

TITLES. — A  Captured  Santa  Claus.  Kittykin,  and  the 
Part  She  Played  in  the  War.  Nancy  Pansy.  Jack 
and  Jake. 

The  popularity  of  Mr.  Page's  charming  story  of  the  "  Two 
Little  Confederates  "  was  and  is  so  great — 12,000  copies  of 
the  book  having  been  sold — that  a  new  book  by  the  same 
author  is  of  unusual  interest  for  young  readers.  The  scenes 
■of  these  fresh  stories  of  the  war  are  laid  in  Virginia — a  field 
in  which  Mr.  Page  is  unrivaled — and  they  are  told  with  all 
the  vivacity,  feeling  and  humor  that  has  made  the  author's 
earlier  story  such  delightful  reading.  They  are  interesting, 
not  only  as  stories  which  will  entertain  young  readers,  but 
as  accurate  pictures  of  phases  of  life  in  Virginia  during  the 
war. 


Two  Little  Confederates. 

BY  THOMAS  NELSON   PAGE. 

With  Eight  full-page  Illustrations  toy  E.  W.  Kemble  and  A.  C.  Redwood. 

One  volume,  square  8vo,  -        -  -       -         $1.50. 

"  Most  delightful." — New  York  Times. 

"There  is  both  humor  and  pathos  in  the  book,  and  its 
literary  qualities  are  as  high  as  any  book  for  young  folks 
printed   since    'Little  Lord  Fauntleroy.' "— Christian  Union. 

"  The  story  is  beautifully  told,  fun  and  pathos  being 
equally  mingled  in  its  ingenious  threads.  The  book  is  a 
handsome  octavo  and  is  fully  illustrated." — Newark  Adver- 
tiser. 

"  It  tells  the  story  of  two  Virginia  lads  left  at  home  on 
a  plantation  while  the  men  went  to  fight.  The  youngsters 
have  many  adventures,  serious  and  humorous,  and  get  into 
trouble  and  out  of  it  again.  The  story  abounds  in  stirring 
incidents,  and  gives  a  very  picturesque  view  of  home  life  in 
Virginia  during  the  rebellion.  It  is  an  admirable  juvenile  book, 
teaching  an  excellent  moral  of  self-reliance." — The  Boston 
Saturday  Gazette. 


SCRIBNER'S  "BOOKS  FOT{  THE  YOUNG. 


A  NEW  SERIES  FOR  BOYS 

"Bound  in  uniform  style  and  sold  at  $1.25  each. 


THE  BOY  SETTLERS. 

A   STORY  OF  EARLY   TIMES  IN  KANSAS. 

BY  NOAH   BROOKS. 

With  Sixteen  full-page  Illustrations 
by  W.  A.  Rogers. 

One  volume,  1 2mo,     -      -    $1.25. 

In  "  The  Boy  Settlers "  Noah  Brooks  has  written  a 
companion  volume  to  his  popular  "  Boy  Emigrants,"  a 
new  and  cheaper  edition  of  which  is  issued  simulta- 
neously. "The  Boy  Settlers"  is  a  story  cf  adventure 
and  incident  in  Kansas  in  the  exciting  days  when  that 
State  was  the  battle  ground  between  the  border  ruffians- 
and  the  emigrants  from  the  North  over  the  slavery 
question. 

•*  "It  is  full  of  incident  and  adventure,  in  a  style  well 
fitted  not  only  to  captivate  the  young,  but  also  to  beguile 
the  maturer  reader  into  losirg  himself  for  awhile  in  the 
fresh  stirring  life  of  a  new  settlement." 

— -V.  Y.  Journal  of  Commerce. 


r^iiiiWBrcs^ltll 

SURE  ENOUGH,  THERE  THEY  WERE,  T1 
FIVE  OR  THIRTY  INDIANS." 
Reduced  from  "  The  Boy  Settlers." 


The  Boy  Emigrants. 

BY  NOAH   BROOKS. 

With  Illustrations  by  T.  IHoran  and 
W.  L.  Staeppard.    121110,  $1.25. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  best  boy's  stories  we  have  ever  read. 
There  is  nothing  morbid  or  unhealthy  about  it.  His 
heroes  are  thorough  boys,  with  all  the  faults  of  their 
age." — The  Christian  at  Work. 


A  NEW  MEXICO  DAVID. 

*AND   OTHER   STORIES  AND    SKETCHES    OF  THE  SOUTHWEST. 
BY  CHARLES  F.  LUMMIS. 

With  Eight  full-page  Illustrations.    One  volume,  121110,  $1.25. 

These  eighteen  stories  and  sketches  are  true  pictures  of  the  life  of  the  wonderful  and  almost  unknown 
Southwest,  and  are  based  upon  the  author's  acquaintance  with  its  quaint  peoples,  its  weird  customs,  and  its. 
dangers,  made  during  a  long  residence  among  the  Indians  and  Mexicans.  The  stories  relate  to  old  legends,. 
and  to  the  Indians,  gold  hunters  and  cowboys  of  the  Southwest,  and  are  of  absorbing  interest. 


SCRIBNER'S  VOOKS  FOR   THE   YOUNG. 


MARVELS  OF  ANIMAL  LIFE  SERIES. 


By  Charles  F.  Holder. 
The  Set,  $5.00. 


Three  volumes,  8vo,  each  profusely  illustrated.     Singly,  $1.75. 


THE  IVORY  KING. 

A  Popular  History  of  the  Elephant  and  its 
Allies.  With  Twenty-four  full-page  Illus- 
trations, $1.75. 

"  The  author  also  talks  in  a  lively  and  pleasant  way  about 
white  elephants,  rogue  elephants,  baby  elephants,  trick 
elephants,  of  the  elephant  in  war,  pageantry,  sports,  and 
games.  A  charming  accession  to  books  for  young  people." 
—  The  Chicago  Interior. 

MARVELS  OF  ANIMAL  LIFE. 

With  Twenty-four  full-page  Illustrations,  $1.75. 

"Mr  Holder  combines  his  description  of  these  odd  crea- 
tures with  stories  of  his  own  adventures  in  pursuit  of  them 
in  many  parts  of  the  world.  These  are  told  with  much 
spirit  and  humor  and  add  greatly  to  the  fascination  of  the 
book." — The  Worcester  Spy, 

LIVING   LIGHTS. 

A  Popular  Account  of  Phosphorescent  Animals 
and  Vegetables.  With  Twenty-seven  full- 
page  Illustrations,  $1.75. 

"  Nothing  could  be  better  adapted  to  interest  young  people 
in  natural  history." — Philadelphia  Record. 


The  Boy's  Library  of  Legend  and  Chivalry. 

Edited  by  Sidney  Lanier,  and  richly  illustrated  by  Fredericks,  Bensell,  and  Kappes. 
Four  volumes,  cloth,  uniform  binding,  price  per  set,  $7.00.  Sold  separately,  price 
per  volume,  §2.00. 

Mr.  Lanier's  books  present  to  boy  readers  the  old 
English  classics  of  history  and  legend  in  an  attractive 
form.  While  they  are  stories  of  action  and  stirring  inci- 
dent, they  teach  those  lessons  which  manly,  honest  boys 
ought  to  learn. 

THE  BOY'S  KING  ARTHUR. 
THE  BOY'S  FROISSART. 
THE  BOY'S  PERCY. 
THE    KNIGHTLY    LEGENDS   OF 
WALES. 

"  Amid  all  the  strange  and  fanciful  scenery  of  tnese 
stories,  character  and  ideals  of  character  remain  at  the 
simplest  and  purest.  The  romantic  history  transpires 
in  the  healthy  atmosphere  of  the  open  air  on  the  green 
earth  beneath  the  open  sky." — The  Independent. 


SCRIBNER'S  'BOOKS  FOR   THE  YOUNG. 


CHILDREN'S  STORIES  IN  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

TALIESIN  TO  SHAKESPEA%E— SHAKESPEARE  TO  TENNYSON. 


BY  HENRIETTA  CHRISTIAN  WRIGHT. 
Two  volumes,  121110,  each,         - 


$1.25 


The  first  volume  of  Miss  Wright's  "  Children's  Stories  in  English  Literature  " 
took  the  young  reader  down  to  Shakespeare;  the  new  volume  continues  the  bright 
and  entertaining  narrative  "  From  Shakespeare  to  Tennyson,"  thus  completing  a 
work  upon  the  first  part  of  which  the  highest  praise  has  been  bestowed. 

"  The  study  of  our  literature  is  made  fascinating  for  Miss  Wright's  readers 
by  the  skillful  use  she  makes  of  the  biographical  glimpses  she  gives  of  each  author, 
and  by  the  excellent  pictures  she  draws  of  the  life  of  which  they  were  contem- 
poraries. She  is  a  reliable  guide  who  conveys  much  charming  information." — 
Cambridge   Tribune. 

"  It  is  indeed  a  vivid  history  of  the  people  as  well  as  a  story  of  their  litera- 
ture; and,  brief  as  it  is,  the  author  has  so  deftly  seized  on  all  the  salient  points, 
that  the  child  who  has  read  this  book  will  be  more  thoroughly  acquainted  than 
many  a  student  of  history  with  the  life  and  thought  of  the  centuries  over  which 
the  work  reaches." — Tlie  Evangelist. 


"BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 

CHILDREN'S   STORIES 

OF   THE   GREAT   SCIENTISTS. 

With  numerous  Portraits.  .....  12mo,  $1.26 

"  The  author  has  succeeded  in  making  her  pen  pictures  of  the  great  scientists  as 
graphic  as  the  excellent  portraits  that  illustrate  the  work.  Around  each  name  she  has 
picturesquely  grouped  the  essential  features  of 
scientific  achievement." — Brooklyn  Times. 


OF    AMERICAN    PROGRESS. 

Illustrated.  -  -  12mo,  $1.25 

"  Miss  Wright  is  favorably  known  by  her  vol- 
ume of  well-told  'Stories  in  American  History,' 
and  her  '  Stories  of  American  Progress  '  is  equally 
worthy  of  commendation.  Taken  together  they 
present  a  series  of  pictures  of  great  graphic  in- 
terest.  The  illustrations  are  excellent." — The 
Nation. 

IN  AMERICAN  HISTORY. 

Illustrated.  -  12mo.  $1.25 

"A  most  delightful  and  instructive  collection 
of  historical  events  told  in  a  simple  and  pleasant 
manner.  Almost  every  occurrence  in  the  gradual 
development  of  our  country  is  woven  into  an  at- 
tractive story  for  young  people." — San  Francisco 
Evening  Post. 


SCR/BNER'S  BOOKS  FO%  THb  YOUNG. 


THE  BOY'S  LIBRARY  OF  PLUCK  AND  ACTION. 


Four  volumes,  i»ino,  in  a  box,  illustrated,    • 
Sold  separately,  price  per  volume,  - 


♦5.00 
1.50 


A  jolly  Fellowship. 

BY  FRANK  R.  STOCKTON. 


HANS    BRINKER; 

OR,  THE    SILVER    SKATES. 

A  Story  of  Life  in  Holland. 
BY  MRS.  MARY  MAPES  DODGE. 


THE 


Boy  Emigrants. 

BY  NOAH  BROOKS. 


PHAETON    ROGERS. 

BY  ROSSITER  JOHNSON. 

In  the  ''Boy's  Library  of  Pluck  and  Action,"  the  design  was  to  bring  together  the  repre 
sentative  and  most  popular  books  of  four  of  the  best  known  writers  for  young  people. 
The  volumes  are  beautifully  illustrated  and  uniformly  bound  in  a  most  attractive  form. 


ILLUSTRATED  LIBRARY  OF  TRAVEL 


BY  BAYARD   TAYLOR. 


Per  set,  six  volumes,  121110,  $6.00.  Each  ■with  many  illustrations. 

Sold  separately,  per  volume,         -       -       $1.25. 

JAPAN  IN  OUR  DAY. 

TRAVELS  IN  ARABIA. 

TRAVELS  IN  SOUTH  AFRICA. 

CENTRAL  ASIA. 

THE  LAKE  REGION  OF  CENTRAL 

AFRICA. 
SLAM,  THE   LAND  OF  THE  WHITE 

ELEPHANT. 

Each  volume  is  complete  in  itself,  and 
contains,  first,  a  brief  preliminary  sketch 
of  the  country  to  which  it  is  devoted;  next, 
such  an  outline  of  previous  explorations  as 
may  be  necessary  to  explain  what  has 
been  achieved  by  later  ones;  and  finally, 
a  condensati  on  of  one  or  more  of  the  most 
Important  narratives  of  recent  travel,  accompanied  with  illustrations  of  the  scenery, 
architecture,  and  life  of  the  races,  drawn  only  from  the  most  authentic  sources. 

"  Authenticated  accounts  of  countries,  peoples,  modes  of  living'  and  being,  curiosities  in  natural  history, 
and  personal  adventure  in  travels  and  explorations,  suggest  a  rich  fund  of  solid  instruction  combined  with  de- 
lightful entertainment.  The  editorship  by  one  of  the  most  observant  and  well-travelled  men  of  modern  times, 
at  once  secures  the  high  character  of  the  '  Library  '  in  every  particular." — The  Sunday  School  Times- 


SCRIBNER'S  'BOOKS  FOR   THE  YOUNG. 


STORIES    FOR   BOYS. 

BY  RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS. 

With  Six  full-page  Illustrations.    One  volume,  12*110,       -       ■     $1.00. 

CONTENTS.— The  Reporter  who  made  himself  King.  Midsummer  Pirates.  Richard 
Carr's  Baby  :  a  Football  Story.  The  Great  Tri-Club  Tennis  Tournament. 
The  Jump  at  Corey's  Slip.  The  Van  Bibber  Baseball  Club.  The  Story  of 
a  Jockey. 


THE  WAVE  SWEPT  BY  HER  AND  THE  DEFEATED  CREW  SALUTED  THE  VICTORS  WITH  CHEERS. 

In  freshness  of  theme  and  originality  of  treatment,  these  boys'  stories  are  character- 
istic of  the  popular  author  of  "  Gallegher,"  who  is  himself  an  expert  in  all  manly  sports. 
Mr.  Davis  puts  an  immense  amount  of  snap  and  dash  into  these  exciting  stories  of  the 
sports  that  all  wide-awake,  healthy  boys  are  interested  in,  with  just  a  touch  of  pathos 
here  and  there  to  emphasize  some  manly  trait  in  his  young  heroes  of  the  field  and  the- 
water.     Every  boy  will  find  them  rattling  good  stories. 


SCRIBNER'S  'BOOKS  FOR    THE   YOUNG. 


Stanley's  Great  African  Story  for  Boys. 
MY     KALULU. 

<PRINCE,  KING  zAND  SLAVE.      *A  STO%Y  OF  CENTRAL  -AFRICA. 

BY  HENRY  M.  STANLEY. 

One  volume,  121110,  [N^ew  Edition,  with  many  Illustrations,  $1.50. 

Mr.  Stanley's  African  romance  for  boys  is  based  upon  knowl- 
edge acquired  during  his  journey  in  search  of  Dr.  Livingstone, 
which  began  in  1871  and  ended  in  1872.  It  is  a  fascinating  story 
of  strange  scenes,  incidents  and  adventures  among  the  tribes 
of  Central  Africa,  and  of  encounters  with  the  wild  animals  that 
make  their  home  there. 

"A  fresh,  breezy,  stirring  story  for  youths,  interesting  in 
itself  and  full  of  information  regarding  life  in  the  interior  of  the 
continent  in  which  its  scenes  are  laid." — The  New  York  Times. 

"  If  the  young  reader  is  fond  of  strange  adventures,  he  will  find  enough  in  this  vol- 
ume to  delight  him  all  winter,  and  he  will  be  hard  to  please  who  is  not  charmed  by  its 
graphic  pages." — Boston  Journal. 

A  TALE  OF  THE 

INDIAN  MUTINY; 

Or,  The  Serpent-Charmer.  By  Louis 
Rousselet.  New  Edition,  Fully  Illus- 
trated.    i2mo,  $1.50. 

"The  book,  the  plot  of  which  appears  to 
be  founded  on  fact,  is  rather  a  boy's  book 
than  a  novel,  and  is  filled  with  an  uninter- 
rupted series  of  wild  adventures,  told  in 
an  agreeable  and  interesting  way." 

—  The  Nation. 


ADVENTURES  OF 

CAPTAIN  MAGO  ; 

Or,    A  Phoenician   Expedition,   B.  C.   1000. 
By  Leon  Cahun.     With  73  Illustrations. 
-  New  Edition,  $1.50. 

A  narrative  of  strange  and  perilous 
adventures  by  land  and  sea,  and  present- 
ing a  vivid  and  accurate  picture  of  the 
world  as  it  was  known  to  the  Phoenician 
navigators  and  travelers  1000  years  before 
the  Christian  era. 


Wild  Men  and  Wild  Beasts; 

OR,  SCENES  IN  CAMP  AND  JUNGLE. 

BY   LIEUT. -COL.   GORDON    CLAIMING. 

New  Edition,  Illustrated,  -  -  One  Volume,  12 mo,  $1.50. 

The  author  of  this  book  is  famous  for  his  hunting  exploits 
in  Africa  and  in  Asia.  His  narrative  has  an  autobiographical 
basis  and  contians  some  of  the  most  marvelous  stories  of  adven- 
ture ever  published.  Col.  Gordon  Cumming's  accounts  of  his 
various  expeditions  are  records  of  bravery  and  endurance 
seldom  paralleled  ;  and  the  tales  of  bloodshed  are  alleviated  by 
pleasant  anecdote — the  humors  of  the  camp  and  chase. 


SCRIBNERS  BOOKS  FO%  THE  YOUNG. 


TWO  BOOKS  FOR  BOYS  AND  GIRLS. 

Mr.  Beard  has  added  sixty  new  drawings  to  his  "  American  Boy's 
Handy  Book,"  to  illustrate  the  new  games,  sports,  and  mechanical  contriv- 
ances which  he  has  incorporated  in  this  latest  edition.  The  Misses  Beard's 
companion  volume,  "The  American  Girl's  Handy  Book,"  is  reduced  in 
price,  all  the  features  being  retained.  Both  are  profusely  illuscrated  with 
hundreds  of  pictures  and  designs,  and  in  their  new  dress  will  be  prime 
*<ivorites  with  holiday  buyers. 

THE  AMERICAN  BOY'S  HANDY  BOOK; 

OR,  WHAT  TO  DO  AND  HOW  TO  DO  IT. 
BY  DANIEL  C.   BEARD. 

With  over  360  Illustrations  by  the  Author. 

One  volume,  square  8vo,        -        -        -       $2.00 


"  The  book  has  this  great  advantage  over  its  predeces- 
sors, that  most  of  the  games,  tricks,  and  other  amuse- 
ments described  in  it  are  new.  It  treats  of  sports  adapted 
to  all  seasons  of  the  year  ;  it  is  practical,  and  it  is  well 
illustrated ."—  The  New  York  Tribune. 


"  It  tells  boys  how  to  make  all  kinds  of  things — boats, 
traps,  toys,  puzzles,  aquariums,  fishing  tackle  ;  how  to 
tie  knots,  splice  ropes,  to  make  bird-calls,  sleds,  blow- 
guns,  balloons  ;  how  to  rear  wild  birds,  to  train  dogs, 
and  d  the  thousand  and  one  things  that  boys  take 
delight  in.  The  book  is  illustrated  in  such  a  way  that  no 
mistake  can  be  made." — The  Indianapolis  jfoumal. 


THE  AMERICAN  GIRL'S  HANDY  BOOK; 

OR,  HOW  TO  AMUSE  YOURSELF  AND  OTHERS. 
BY  LENA  AND  ADELIA  B.  BEARD. 

With  over  500  Illustrations  by  the  Authors. 

One  volume,  square  8vo,      -        -        -  $2.00 

LOUISA  M.  ALCOTT  WROTE: 
"  I  have  put  it  in  my  list  of  good  and  useful  books  for 
young  people,  as  I  have  many  requests  for  advice  from  my 
little  friends  and  their  anxious  mothers.     I  am  most  happy 
to  commend  your  very  ingenious  and  entertaining  book." 

GRACE  GREENWOOD  WROTE: 
"It  is  a  treasure  which,  once  possessed,  no  practical  girl 
would  willingly  part  with.  It  is  an  invaluable  aid  in  making 
a  home  attractive,  comfortable,  artistic  and  refined  The 
book  preaches  the  gospel  of  cheerfulness,  industry,  economy 
and  comfort." 


SCRIBNER'S  HOOKS  FOR   THE   YOUNG. 


TWO   JUVENILES.— by  Edward  Eggleston. 


THE  HOOSIER  SCHOOL-BOY. 


One  -volume,  12 mo.    With  full-page  Illustrations, 


$1.00. 


Mr.  Eggleston  is  one  of  the  very  few  American  writers  who  have  succeeded  in  giving 
to  their  work  a  genuine  savor  of  the  soil,  a  distinctively  American  Character.  The  scene 
of  his  stories  is  the  Western  Reserve,  and  the  characters  are  types  of  the  early  part  of  this 
century,  in  the  territory  now  comprised  in  Indiana  and  Ohio.  The  Hoosier  School-boy  de- 
picts some  characteristics  of  boy  life,  years  ago,  on  the  Ohio,  characteristics,  however,  that 
were  not  peculiar  to  the  section  only.  The  story  presents  a  vivid  and  interesting  picture 
of  the  difficulties  which  in  those  days  beset  the  path  of  a  youth  aspiring  for  an  education. 
"  Nobody  has  pictured  boy-life  with  greater  power  or  more  fidelity  than  Mr.  Eggleston.  This  story  is  one 
of  his  best— it  should  be  in  the  hands  of  every  hoy ."  —Hartford  Times. 


QUEER  STORIES   FOR  BOYS  AND  GIRLS. 


One  volume,  12mo, 


$1.00. 


This  is  a  book  of  such  stories  as  all  boys  and  girls  like  to  tell  and  to  hear,  and  yet 
they  contain  as  much  wisdom  and  as  many  lessons  of  good  conduct,  of  noble  bearing  and 
of  self-respecting  independence,  as  might  be  contained  in  volumes  of  sermons  and  reams 
of  "good  advice,"  that  would  not  penetrate  skin  deep,  nor  remain  five  minutes  in  the 
memory  of  the  young  people  who  were  aimed  at. 


SCRIBNER'S  "BOOKS  FOR    THE   YOUNG. 


Mrs.  Burnetts  Four  Famous  juveniles 

UNIFORM  IN  STYLE  AND  ILLUSTRATED  BY  R.  B.  BIRCH 


A  NEW  "BOOK  JUST  ISSUED 

GIOVANNI    AND    THE    OTHER 

Children  Who  Havi  .Made  Stckies.     By  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett.      With  nine 
full- page  illustrations  by  Rel'nald  B.  Birch.     One  volume,  square  8vo,  $1.50. 

In  this  r.ew  volume  there  is  a  cer'.a.r  unity  growing  out  of  the  fact  that  the  tales, 
with  one  or  two  exceptions,  are  aboi  t  little  people  whom  Mrs.  Burnett  has  known,  an 
autobiographic  interest  thereby  attaching  to  the  charming  portraits  of  child  life.  Four 
of  the  stories  are  about  little  Italian  waifs  who  crept  into  the  author's  heart ;  two  are 
of  incidents  in  the  lives  of  Mrs,  Burnett's  own  boys,  and  the  others  are  varied  in  subject. 
They  all  reveal  that  magic  charm  in  the  delineation  of  child  life,  the  secret  of  which 
Mrs.  Burnett  alone  seems  to  possess.  The  illustrations  are  unusually  attractive  and 
fully  sustain  Mr.  Birch's  reputation  as  a  portrayer  of  Mrs.  Burnett's  little  heroes  and 
heroines. 


LITTLE    SAINT    ELIZABETH  & 

And  Other  Stories.  With  12  new  full-page  drawings 
by  Reginald  B.  Birch.  One  volume,  square  8vo, 
$1.50. 

FROM  SUSAN  COOLIDGE ; 

"  The  pretty  tale  from  which  the  book  borrows  its  name  has  for  its  heroine 
a  little  French  girl  brought  up  in  an  old  chateau  in  Normandy,  by  an  aunt  who 
is  a  recluse  and  devote.  A  child  of  this  type,  transplanted  suddenly  while 
still  in  childhood  to  the  realistic  atmosphere  of  prosperous  New  York,  must 
inevitably  have  much  to  suffer.  She  is  puzzled  ;  she  is  lonely  ;  she  has  no  one 
to  direct  her  conscience.  The  quaint  little  figure,  blindly  trying  to  guess  the 
riddle  of  duty  under  these  unfamiliar  conditions,  is  pathetic,  and  Mrs.  Bui- 
nett  touches  it  in  with  delicate  strokes.  The  stories  are  prettily  illustrated  by 
Birch." 


Little   Lord  Fauntleroy 

Beautifully  illustrated  by  Reginald  B.  Birch.     One 
volume,  square  8vo,  $2.00. 

FROM  LOUISA   M.  ALCOTT: 

"In  'Little  Lord  Fauntleroy'  we  gain  another 
charming  child  to  add  to  our  gallery  of  juvenile  heroes 
and  heroines;  one  who  teaches  a  great  lesson  with  such 
truth  and  sweetness  that  we  part  with  him  with  real 
regret  when  the  episode  is  over." 


SARA    CREWE: 

Or,  What  Happened  at  Miss  Minchin's.      Richly  and 

fully  illustrated  by  R.  B.  Birch.     One  volume 

square  8vo,  $1.00. 

FROM  LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTCN: 

Everybody  was  in  love  with  '  Little  Lord  Fauntleroy,'  and  I  think  all 
the  world  and  the  rest  of  mankind  will  be  in  love  with  '  Sara  Crewe.'  I  .vish 
■every  girl  in  America  could  read  it." 


